The Shade of Poison Trees
by Tunnels.to.Gates.of.White
Summary: Isolated Freshman Katniss Everdeen swallows a bottle of pills alone in her dorm room. A month later, as part of her treatment, she's paired up with fellow student and peer counselor Peeta Mellark. Peeniss, Modern AU.
1. The City Without Eyes

**AN: Most of my author's notes won't be nearly this long, but I have a few disclaimers to make. And also, the rest of my chapters will have a bit more writing, a lot less author-noting.**

**This story is rated M for language, adult themes, and sexual content later on. It comes with a trigger warning, and will contain limited and brief mentions of self-injury. **

**It is not, in any shape or form, a pro-suicide story. I take depression and suicide extremely seriously, having seen the effects of both in my own life. They are not being used as a gimmick to maximize Peeniss feels, and I will try my best to accurately portray the reality of the topics this story covers.**

**My short PSA: If you are depressed or considering suicide, you should know that it's a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and that, at a minimum, a suicide severely affects around 25 people. Naïve as this statement may seem, whatever your situation is, it can and will get better :)**

**All reviews are welcome and appreciated. I'll respond to all of them, and you might get a cupcake with Peeta's face on it.**

**I don't own **_**The Hunger Games **_**by Suzanne Collins or "The Shade or Poison Trees" by Dashboard Confessional, who I borrowed my title from.**

XXX

I can see why they call New York the city with no eyes. The statement bleeds onto the Bohm campus, every day.

Especially tonight. People slam into me, and spill beer on my shirt, but they don't look at me.

I sit on a dirty couch next to a boy with black hair because he's the only one I recognize. We did a Bio project together two weeks ago. But he turns his head to face me, realizes I'm not his date, and snaps his attention back to the beer he's nursing without a word.

To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm here. This isn't my scene. I tried a few times during orientation week, thinking it'd be the best place to make friends, before I remembered that I'm no good at socializing. Not when I'm sober, and definitely not drunk.

A girl puts a hand on top of my head, trying to steady herself. Her fingers tangle in my braid.

Stumbling off, she slurs, "Sorry. Saw the top of your head. Thought it was the table. Both brown."

I probably would've been more welcome and useful here as that table than a person.

Suddenly, my throat itches and I have to close my eyes. I told myself I wouldn't do this tonight. I wouldn't think things like that, because there's no point. I've already made a choice; it has to happen tonight before my roommate gets back from staying with her family over the weekend. I don't need to talk myself into anything anymore.

But I don't need to wait here, either.

If I have one night left, why don't I at least spend it doing something the real me likes? Something that doesn't involve people, or alcohol, or drugs, or sex. It doesn't involve table tops or dirty couches or assholes from Biology.

If I had my choice, I'd talk to Gale. But he's off studying abroad, and his skype's broken more than it works.

I'd talk to Prim, too, but I've gotten really tired of trying to communicate with a ghost.

There's a book I haven't finished yet. _Death of a Salesman_. It's for English, and not really a book at all, but I'd hate to miss how it ended. I don't read much, so when I do, I hate leaving something midway.

I get to my feet, more stable than anyone around me. That might seem expected, but the rest of them are all just drunk on beer. On the other hand, I'm filled to capacity with something a lot stronger. An idea, a fear, a desire, and an emptiness.

Just before I exit through the door, it opens from the other side. There's a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes who stops in the doorway just before we collide.

Silently, I move to slip past him, and he steps back to let me through.

I trudge down the steps of the frat house, pausing when I think I hear someone calling my name. Hesitantly, I turn back and realize it's just the wind and some desperate hope I have that someone at the party noticed I was there—and that I'm leaving.

But no one even faces me, because it's too early to leave the party for anyone normal.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I begin to turn around. Just before I do, the blonde boy's head peeks out from inside the room. He looks at me, right in the eye, and I'm gone in a heartbeat.

I nearly run back to my dorm room, seized by a strange fear that I won't have time to finish my book. But of course I do.

And then, marveling in the irony that they'll find that particular novel next to me, I swallow a bottle of Aspirin.

XXX

Someone wanders into the wrong room, thinking it's theirs, and they find me. There's an ambulance. Needles. A gloved hand holds mine while another takes my pulse.

The lights are suddenly bright, so bright I can't keep my eyes open. They lull me gently to sleep, and I let it carry me away, all the while feeling sharp pain radiating for somewhere in my body.

Someone says my name again.

XXX

My mother visits me a few days later. I'm too drugged up to interact much with her, and she looks at me in a sort of daze.

I should probably tell her this isn't her fault. That she might have a degree is Psychology, and she might have moved down from New York to North Carolina to take a counseling job, and she might have left me here without anyone, but it's not her fault.

At Least, that's what I try to tell myself.

She says Hazelle forwarded an email from Gale, and he loves studying abroad in Brazil, even though he spends more time in the woods than class. Apparently he's learning how to hunt with a bow and arrow, too.

We decide not to tell him I'm in the hospital, especially since part of me resents him for leaving in the first place.

XXX

From the hospital, they transfer me to a sort of home. It's for anyone age 25 and under, and there's a doctor who helps me outline some kind of release plan. Everything's so strictly ordered they might as well tattoo the schedule on my arm.

There's a rec room with an old television set and a pool table. Couches and books. No internet or computers.

Sometimes they force me to go there socialize with the other people who either chose or were forced to come here. I meet someone named Finnick, who's impossible to miss because he looks and acts so different compared to everyone else here. I'm not sure what's landed him with the rest of us, but he has eyes that tell me I don't want to find out.

XXX

They try a new medication on me. Doctors ask a lot of questions.

I don't mention Prim once.

XXX

They release me two weeks later. I'm not deemed high-risk anymore, though I don't feel any different.

Back at school, the new quarter is in its first week.

My roommate asked for a switch, so I've been moved all the way down the hall. Apparently people didn't want to stop by our room anymore after they heard about the way I'd been discovered on the ground, even though they all knew I wasn't coming back to school for a while. Guess she figured booting me out would bring her social life back from the dead.

The campus is empty as it ever gets, which doesn't mean much, since there are 40,000 people at Bohm. But for once, I'm glad, because none of them have the slightest idea who I am, or where I've been. I'm glad there aren't any eyes to meet mine.

I go inside the student services building, where they house all the offices for guidance counselors, along with a coffee shop and a store that sells anything you could want. The rest of the rooms are ones I haven't checked.

The staircase has blue tile, a silver handrail, and a giant poster that was signed by my incoming freshman class that reads, "We are the Bohm Badgers." I never bothered getting out a sharpie to add my own name.

I head up the stairs, take two wrong turns, and finally stop outside the counseling office, which I've only visited once.

The person sitting at the front desk doesn't look up when I push the door open, too busy scribbling something down on a sheet of paper.

I stare at her, waiting, until I finally interrupt, "Katniss Everdeen. I've got an appointment at 12:00."

Her head jerks up, and she gives me a wide smile. "You can have a seat over there," she says, pointing a manicured finger at a red chair against the wall. "Mr. Witt will be with you soon."

I nod and do as she says, unable to ignore the discreet glances she shoots my way. She must've been the person my doctor spoke to when he scheduled a meeting with my counselor.

Witt calls me back a few minutes later, and I silently follow him back to his tiny office that comes with two chairs, a small desk, and a computer.

He has dark skin and wears a simple black shirt and pants. I awkwardly stand in front of him until he says I can take a seat across from him.

"Good to be back?" he asks. Unable to think of any circumstance where a student like me would be excited to return to college, I just stare at him, my lips set in a firm line.

When I don't respond, he leans back in his chair, getting comfortable. Surprisingly enough, he tells me, "I think I'm the only one on campus who likes finals week. But only because it means I get to take some vacation days right after."

He pauses, waiting for me to talk, point out that the four-day "break" has come and gone. I don't.

"Have any difficulty finding your new room?" he asks. I shake my head. "Your new roommate is a transfer student who'll be here in about a week."

"Okay."

The printer behind him whirls. He takes a paper from the tray and hands it to me. "Your schedule," he explains.

I fold it up and put it in my pocket. "Thanks."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"No."

Without any visible sign of frustration or annoyance, he stands and extends his hand. "Well, with the exception of every other Tuesday, I'll be here."

I like him much better than my other doctors and therapists. He keeps it short and to the point, and doesn't press me for details I'm unwilling to give.

So I shake his hand.

Witt opens the door for me, and I exit the office. He trails behind.

We round the corner, and I notice someone's sitting in one of the chairs, next-in-line. My eyes determinedly lock on the doorway as I make a beeline for it.

Witt's voice stops me. "Katniss, can you wait just a minute?"

Hesitantly, I turn around, expecting a lecture about using my resources or how I'm not alone. How he's always there to talk if I need him.

Instead, a boy stands next to him, palms pressed against his blue jeans as he watches me.

Planting my feet, I size him up from where I stand, fifteen feet away. His cheeks turn pink, and his head drops, diverting his eyes.

He knows. If his sudden discomfort isn't enough of a cue, his complete refusal to look at me for longer than a few seconds proves my point.

I'm suddenly aware that Witt's talking. I barely catch the tail-end of whatever he was saying: "...counselors, who are generally found in room 231 on the lower level."

Silence falls on us, and I blink, at a loss. They both seem to be waiting for me to respond, give some sign that I understand. So I shrug and say, "Okay," before I spin back around and head out the door.

Just as I reach the top of the staircase, I hear footsteps echoing across the nearly-empty hallway. My shoulders tense, and I pick up the pace, keeping my eyes on my feet to make sure I don't trip.

Another pair of shoes step into my vision, right next to me. Instantly, I stop, and they take two more steps before stalling on the steps, too.

I finally look up, and I'm surprised to find the boy from the officer earlier. Guess he had a quick meeting. Maybe that's how Witt handles all his students.

"Did you need any help?" he asks, and my eyes meet his. That's when I recognize him-the boy from the party. The last one I saw before...

Agitated, I grit my teeth, feeling my face heat up. "No."

I keep walking, childishly angling my shoulders away from him. He seems to pick up on my body language, because he hurriedly adds, "I just meant moving in. Or...changing rooms. I mean." His palms slap at his jeans again.

"I got it all."

There's another palpable break in the conversation. He lets it be until we reach the sidewalk outside, where he says, "That must've been a lot of stuff to carry by yourself."

It's an innocent statement, but irritating, nonetheless. "Not a lot of stuff, no." Not when a decent scholarship's the only reason I have a chance to attend a school like BU. And I didn't have any real desire to dress up my dorm room or turn it into something that's supposed to be pretty, anyway.

He stops trying after that. And still, he tags along, apparently unfortunate enough to be saddled with me for an extra few minutes. He must have a class over here, or it's where his dorm is.

All I really want is to hole myself up in my empty room and enjoy the fact that I'm not sharing it yet. But I'm willing to take a little detour if it means splitting up.

"I'm stopping by Bon Cafe for a drink," I say, backtracking.

He turns. "Okay. I'll..." He trails off, an odd expression crossing his face, before he gives me a cautious, lopsided smile. "Try the frosted sugar cookies," he suggests in a rush, spinning around so quickly that he trips on his right shoelace.

I watch as he kneels, takes the unruly strings in his fingers, and double knots them.

XXX

**A/N AS OF 7/24: (This note appears on the last chapter too, but eh.) **

**Hey guys! So, or those of you I've talked with directly, you already know that I've been planning on updating forever now. And I did completely intend to do that. However, at this time, I'm going to go ahead and mark this story complete. You guys have been really amazing and encouraging to me, but the truth is that I've seen a pretty nasty side of the Hunger Games fandom and I can't bring myself to write about it anymore. But I do wish you guys all the best, and I genuinely mean it when I say your support and enthusiasm has blown me away.**

**-Tay ^_^**


	2. Sleep

**AN: Hi again! Thanks so much for the follows and favorites. Very cool. And kind of intimidating. But awesome! I want to say a special thanks to Bellanator116, ****lknights91, Guest (#1), mea, Guest (#2), dauntlessbuttercup, Guest (#3), and Guest (#4), who all reviewed for me. For you anons, I wish I could've responded to your reviews, but. If you want to come say hi, you can always stop by my tumblr if you have one :)**

**Still don't own **_**Hunger Games**_**.**

XXX

The sound of Skype ringing wakes me from a nap later that afternoon. I don't even remember turning the thing on.

I ignore it for a few seconds, rolling over so I'm face down on the mattress. Then, just before I know the call's about to end, I start to feel guilty.

There's really only one person who calls me, and it's been a month since we talked. That's not much longer than usual, especially since we have a three hour time difference, but I can't imagine him ever ignoring my messages like I'm doing to him.

Sluggishly, I pull myself to my feet and stumble over to the ugly, tan desk that comes with every room.

Accepting the call, I rub my eyes wearily.

I hear the buzzing noise that means we've connected, but he doesn't say anything at first. Then, "Catnip?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't see you."

I blink, then hunch over until my face enters the frame. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

His face is even tanner than I remember it being, and his forehead drips with sweat. He's got some semblance of a smile on his face—as least as much as Gale can smile, anyway—so I know he hasn't heard about where I've been. Yet.

Suddenly, I'm dreading his return to campus. I should probably tell him now so he won't get angry about hiding things later, but the words die in my throat.

He shifts, leaning a little closer to his camera. "What happened to you?" he asks. "Don't you ever go outside?"

"Yes?"

Shrugging, he notes the defensive edge in my voice. "You just look like you don't get a lot of sun."

"Because I actually go to class." I'm surprised by my own response. How light it is, how easily the sarcasm comes.

His smirk returns. "Biology any easier?" I shake my head. "Didn't think so. Animals aren't your thing."

Someone knocks on my door and calls, "Katniss?"

It's the RA. She's already stopped by once today, and I'm pretty sure she's just checking to make sure I'm still breathing. I think she's afraid she'll be held responsible if something happens. Or maybe she's just trying to be nice. Which would annoy me more than anything.

My voice is short. "I'm here." Gale's eyebrows furl, and I hold up a finger, telling him to keep quiet.

"We're… we're watching a movie," she starts. "On the first floor. We've got pizza."

Great. She is trying to be nice.

I stare at Gale as I answer, scowling at the way the corners of his mouth twitch. "No thanks, Delly."

"We're just starting it, if you change your mind."

"Okay."

Her footsteps retreat, and I sigh, standing up to make sure my door's locked. It is.

I take a seat in front of the screen as Gale says, "They like you now."

If anything, they like me less than before. I scare them. But it's easier to play dumb, so I do. "Who?"

"The girls on your floor. That why you've been too busy to call me back? You've got new friends?"

His tone's joking, but a deep ache settles in the pit of my stomach. "No."

His forehead wrinkles, and he sits up. "What's wrong with you? Why are you—?"

"I was in the middle of a nap, and you woke me up. I'm tired. I'm going back to bed." I rise to my feet, hunching again so I'm in the frame. "I'll call you soon."

"Alright."

We both hang up, seemingly at the same time.

I sleep until 3 a.m., when the hunger pangs wake me. But I ignore them, curling up into a ball, and fall back asleep.

XXX

The next day, I leave my room five times in all, just for the bathroom. On three of the restroom breaks, I run into Delly, but she's progressively quieter every time we see each other.

At first, she asks how I am, whether or not I like my new room. What movie I'd want to watch next time they have a movie night.

Then, it's how many classes I'm taking this quarter. If we have any together.

Last, it's just a smile and a gentle, "Hey, Katniss."

If I have to pick, that one's my favorite.

XXX

I wake up every morning, knowing I should start the new quarter well and show up to my classes. But before I left the mental house, my doctor said I'd have a week to get settled in. After that, I'd be expected to try. To do homework, to attend everything I can, maybe even join a club or sport. And if it's all too much, I've got a long list of people to talk to, from my counselor, to my doctor, to my teachers, to an anonymous hotline.

But, by now, I've shoved that list in the bottom drawer of my desk where I won't have to look at it. I won't need it, anyway. I'm not returning to school until next Monday, and I'm in some strange state of limbo where even dying seems like too much work.

So I just sleep.

Sleep. Drag myself out of bed to use the restroom. Sleep. Snack on chips. Sleep. See Delly in the hallway. Sleep again.

XXX

On Wednesday, I run out of food. I don't know how that's possible, because I won't get out of bed to eat unless I don't have any other choice. I suppose I didn't bring a lot with me in the first place. Somewhere between the taxi ride back to campus and dodging every single person in my dorm, I forgot to stock up.

I try, but I can't sleep anymore; the sharp stomach pain keeps me awake.

At 10:00 p.m., I peek out into the hallway. Everyone's locked away in their rooms, doing homework, sleeping, getting drunk. Whatever the rest of them do really isn't any of my business, so I've never bothered to find out.

Clad in slippers, sweatpants, and a baggy t-shirt, I take the stairs down to the first floor, then exit out the back way. I wander around campus, my mind clouded by a dull haze. I can't remember where the nearest store is, or restaurant, but the rain doesn't help. It comes down in buckets. Shivers wrack my body.

I keep as far away from the cement path as possible, instead moving from tree to tree, using their branches for shelter.

Finally, my gaze sets on Bon Café. The lights are low, but I don't see any indicator that it's closed.

Slowly, I head towards it, remembering the hot chocolate and croissants and frosted sugar cookies.

I peer inside the window, and nearly all the seats are empty. A few straggling couples and study groups take up tables along the corners, but their plates and cups are bare.

My hand reaches for the handle. The locked door clicks as I pull on it, and the faces inside turn towards me.

I instantly let go and start to leave, just as the door creaks open. Tense, I eye the blonde-haired boy from Witt's office as he fills the doorway.

He takes in my appearance, and I can't help but inspect his. He's wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and an apron with a nametag clipped to it that reads, "Peeta."

He steps back, silently holding the door open for me.

"You're closed," I say, standing my ground.

"It's okay."

Frowning, I follow him inside. To my relief, none of the other customers look up, having already lost their interest in me.

There's a brick fireplace in the corner with one large armchair, a couch, a small coffee table, and a lamp resting in front of it. Preferring not to soak the furniture, or even the carpet, I sit on the red bricks the jut out. He gives me a funny look, one I remember from the first time I talked to him on Monday, but I ignore it.

I hold my hands up towards the fire, enjoying the flames. I'm so caught up in the warmth that I don't think to order anything.

Peeta must realize I'm no goldmine because he leaves me alone without a word.

I shift so I can lean my back against the cool brick. My entire body aches with the effort of crossing campus, especially weighed down by wet clothes. In the past month, I've maybe walked a mile total.

My eyes close on their own accord. It can't be more than twenty minutes before soft fingers ghost along my shoulder. I try my best to shrug them off.

"Katniss."

I'm abruptly aware how quiet it is. The rain outside still pours, the fire crackles, but the other voices are gone.

My eyes open, and I'm on my feet in an instant. As expected, the café's empty.

"It's okay," he repeats. "My boss is in the back. As long as she's here, you won't get in trouble for being inside."

I look at him, unsure why he let me in to begin with. Before I can ask, he holds something out for me. I stare at it, realizing I didn't bring any money. Do I even have cash waiting for me back in my room?

Stiffly, I say, "No thanks." His face falls a little, and his arm drops back to his side. "I don't have any money with me."

"Oh." Taken aback, he pauses. "This one's old, anyway. We made it this morning."

"I just said I can't pay for it."

He pushes the thing towards me again. "Don't wo—"

"I'm not taking it."

For the third time, his expression morphs into something strange as he looks at me. "It's just bread, Katniss."

I purse my lips, about to retort, when a woman's voice speaks up from behind us. "Do you want to get home before 11:00 or not? You haven't put the dishes in the sink yet to get washed." I tilt my head to see past him, but the source of the voice must still be in the back.

Peeta waits me out, as if I'll just take the food. The woman calls again, "_Peeta_."

He drops the wrapped bread in my lap. The corner of his mouth turns up in a way that screams pity more than anything else. "You should come back to Gov," he says, before trotting off.

XXX

I didn't know he was in my Government class, probably because it's massive and I always sit as far from the front as possible. But the whole way back to my room, I try to figure out where he sits. But I can't remember the classroom anymore since I haven't been there in a month, so I give up.

To keep the rainwater at bay, I shield the bread with my arm. It's warm again my arm, and I feel another twinge of annoyance. It's either fresh or he heated it up, but I wouldn't want it either way.

XXX

Friday afternoon, at 1:35, I enter the Social Sciences building. I pass the same familiar receptionist, go up the same familiar stairs, ignore the same familiar dirty handrail.

I'm fighting against the tide of people pouring out from the classroom on the second floor. I get a few dirty looks, but I don't think anyone glances at my face, let alone recognizes me as the suicidal girl from the Karl Dorms.

At first, I'm relieved that everyone misses me, walks right by me. Then I realize that I've probably missed him, and that defeats the whole purpose of walking over here. I'll have to come back next Wednesday to catch him again.

Sighing, I reach the end of the hallway and the crowd begins to thin out. The slow ones are still leaving class, and I wait outside the door until there's a gap in the steady stream of people.

Frowning, I head inside. There are a few people left, typing, chatting with each other. One is fast asleep, using his arms for a pillow. He always sits near me in the back.

Peeta's not here. If I was irritated before, my mood's a lot worse now.

I scan the seats one more time, just in case. And I hear his voice behind me, saying, "…tell you to do?"

"What?" I snap, spinning around.

I find him standing in front of the teacher's desk on the other side of the room. Ms. Brown sits in her seat, looking up at him. Neither of them seem to notice me.

"Just to be patient," she answers lightly, handing him a stack of papers.

He holds the papers against his chest to keep the pile neat. "Thanks."

"When you give her those, tell her to come find me before Wednesday," the teacher says, and I narrow my eyes.

They're talking about me. _He's_ talking about me. I don't know why he thinks I want anything to do with him, or why he's taken it upon himself to drag me back from the dead, but his actions suddenly make a lot more sense. He thinks free bread and grabbing homework will fix whatever issue I have, and I'll get happy. Why that's his responsibility in the first place, I can't say.

I don't want to deal with Ms. Brown yet, so I leave the room and sit down on a bench in the hallway.

He stays inside for a few minutes longer, apparently not done talking about me, so I just cross my arms over my middle and wait.

Eventually, Peeta rounds the corner, and I just look at him. His eyebrows jump in surprise when he sees me, then he relaxes, putting his right hand in his pocket.

"I didn't see you in class," he says.

"Must've missed me." He nods, and I coolly continue, "You don't need to talk to the teacher about me after all. Or grab my homework."

He blinks, then looks down at the pile of paper in his hands. It's obvious he thinks he's doing me a favor, that he's helping me somehow, but he's not.

"It's…I'm supposed to do that stuff," he mutters, sifting through the papers like he's looking for something. He shrugs. "Peer counselors are supposed to help."

"Free food's not in your handbook."

"We've brought food to people before," he refutes, surprisingly adamant as he looks up at me. "If they want it. A girl got sick with the flu last quarter and she didn't want to leave her room, so we brought her stuff."

"Yeah, but I'm not sick."

His eyes drop again.

While he's distracted, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a five dollar bill. I put it on top of the homework, sliding it underneath his fingers

"Thanks for the bread."

That's all I came here for, so I head back down the hallway without another word.

It's not long before he catches up with me, his mouth set in a straight line. "You aren't going to take the money back, are you?"

"No."

"Fine. We'll trade."

I'm about to protest when he places the Gov papers in my hands. Stopping, I skim the assignment sheet, the outline frame, whatever else Ms. Brown's already given me. I'll shove it in my desk drawer with my suicide safety contact list.

Peeta shifts, moving his backpack to the other shoulder. Aware of the way he's watching me, I fold the sheets and stash them in my sweatshirt pocket.

My walking resumes, and he keeps pace with me. His gentle, friendly expression's back as he asks, "Did you at least eat it?"

I shoot him a sideways glance, my forehead creasing. Embarrassed, I let my silence speak for itself.

His face splits into a smile, with just a hint of pride.


	3. Shade of Trees

**Hey guys! Thanks so much for all the follows and favorites; my number for each more than doubled with the last update, so lately I've spent about 63% of my time flailing over my stats. Special thanks to pokips, lknights91, Chanceawakening, , Guest (#5? Or are you from the first chapter too?), Guest (#6), SAIgirl24, ShadowCrystal26, Thynerdgurl, and Fictiongal232 who all reviewed for me. It was really cool getting to talk to some of you guys! And shout out to Brazil, because apparently there's a couple of you chilling with Gale down there.**

**Given the chapter ahead, I want to re-emphasize the trigger warning on this story. The descriptions are pretty basic, but if you think it'll bother you at all, just skip this chapter. I feel a little weird about writing it already, so I'd like to think I'm not making anyone's SI worse ^_^ If you want to know what you missed, just drop a review, send a PM, or hit me up on tumblr. I'd be happy to tell you, or send you a slightly shorter version without the cutting :)**

**Suzanne Collins is boss and owns the Hunger Games trilogy.**

**XXX**

I spend the weekend in bed, nibbling on the bread, counting bricks on the wall, and listening to people laughing and yelling and waling outside. All the noise is muffled, like I'm swimming underwater. The words never form sentences, and the footsteps sound as if they're on carpet even though it's linoleum.

Sometimes, I get so tired of the constant sound that I almost snap at them through the wall. Other times, during the slightly better days, the noise comforts me.

At night, I don't sleep. I try, but there's always some memory or dream waiting to shake me from the peace. I'll see Prim's face, but never hear the gentle voice I'm desperate for. Or my dad returns home from work, smiles at me, and sits at the dinner table; this one's always worse, because I know it should've happened on May 8th, eleven years ago, but it never did.

On Saturday morning, at five or six a.m., it's silent and dark and I feel like I'm dead. Like I don't exist, but in a warm way. On Sunday, the quiet is suffocating, like I'm in a coffin, buried around ground.

My chest aches, my stomach feels sick, and I can't breathe. I try sitting up, but my arms are so weak that it's impossible. So I slowly lower myself down to the ground, over the edge of the bed, and lean my head against the wall.

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep there.

I sleep through the alarm on Monday. No Calculus for me, apparently. At that point, I decide I won't bother setting my alarm for tomorrow either.

There's a knock on my door half an hour later, but I stay where I am on the ground. I hear whispering outside, then someone says, "What the hell does that mean?"

Metal scrapes against metal, and I hear the lock click and the door swings open. Startled, I sit up and find myself staring at some brunette who's got a backpack on.

She blinks at me, raising an eyebrow. There's no pity, or surprise, or anything I can name. Maybe exasperation.

Without a word to me, she turns to face whoever's behind her. "I'm good."

I se Delly stands on her tiptoes to see over the girl's shoulder, and she gives me a little wave, relief washing over her face. "Hi, Katniss!"

I nod at her in return, twitching my mouth and hoping it passes for a smile.

Paying no mind to me, the stranger pulls the key from the lock, twirls the attached lanyard around her finger twice, and tells Delly, "See you later."

Delly utters a quick, "Bye," and the intruder shuts the door.

My eyes follow her as she crosses the room and tosses the key and lanyard on her matching brown desk. She opens our single window, then looks down at me. "She's very squeaky, isn't she?"

This annoys me to no end, even though I've thought similar things myself. But I'm in no mood to defend Delly or get in a fight with whoever this is, so I just say, "What're you doing here?"

A thin, tight-lipped smile crosses her face. "Getting educated, brainless."

Grunting, I haul myself to my feet. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Living here until the day you cough up the dough for a private one."

My eyes widen, and horrified, I remember I'm supposed to get a roommate today. "I don't see any bags."

"Shitheads at the airport put them on the wrong fucking plane," she says, pulling the backpack from her shoulders and placing it on her bed. "Or they called me a terrorist and took them away. Either one."

"Great."

I lie back down on my bed and cover my head with a pillow. Thankfully, she doesn't say anything else, but I can hear her rummaging around across from me.

Just when I'm about to lose consciousness again, I hear a dialing sound, then she speaks up. "Hey." I hold the pillow more tightly against my head, and she stops, waiting for a response. "No, I made it okay," she continues. "They lost my damn bags, though." Another pause. "I'm in college. Relax. You're lucky if that's—Yeah, okay. Fine."

There's another pause. Then her tone shifts considerably. "Hey, kid." She laughs at something. "No, Li, it's not my fault. You know she just wants something to bitch ab—don't _tell_ her that. Come on." She snorts. "Some sister you are."

My chest squeezes, and my stomach turns to ice. She keeps talking, but it's all a dull buzz to me. I push the pillow against my ears to drown her out, so hard that my head starts to throb.

My breath comes out in quick gasps, and for some odd reason, I don't want this new girl to know. I don't want her to hear it, or see it, even though I think I hate her.

So I hoist myself from the bed, and my feet hit the floor with a thud. I blindly feel around in the top drawer of my desk until I find what I'm looking for. Then I leave. The room, the hallway, the building.

I find an empty place beneath a tree that's far away from any of the cement paths. I sit, leaning my back against the trunk. My body shivers, and the blade feels cold in my hand. Gasping, I curl up and wrap my free arm around my middle, looking down at it.

Heart pounding underneath my skin, I reopen the old scars.

XXX

On Tuesday, my new roommate goes to class. I stay in. I already feel like I need to cherish every moment of alone time, even if that means I'm left to mope and think about things I shouldn't.

Eventually, I get up, start to get dressed, and then my heart starts to pound again when I think about facing the classes and the people.

Before I return to bed, I take the blade from my desk and hide it under my pillow. I know my roomate will be back, she'll make the same phone call that she does every day, and then I'll need it.

Of course, she returns. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but as soon as she pulls out her cell phone, I make my way outside to sit in the shade of the tree.

XXX

I'm starting to realize I need a new spot to hide. People see me sometimes, and then I have to slink back to my dorm.

But inside, the air's always stuffy and warmer than it should be.

XXX

On Sunday morning, the entire floor smells like vomit. My head throbs after another sleepless night, and I exit the building through the backdoor like a zombie.

Outside, I'm sweating despite the autumn chill, and I throw my head back to drink in the fresh air. It might all be in my imagination, but the coldness soothes my constantly-stinging arm.

When I settle in on the hard ground under the tree, it hits me how peaceful it is out here. But it's a double-edged sword, because the tranquility has another side. One that's numb and empty and rips through my chest whenever I acknowledge it.

I don't remember if Prim liked the outdoors. Every day, I forget something new about her, like her favorite food, which stuffed animals she kept in her bed, what outfit she picked out for her first day of school. But I never forget her eyes, or the little smile that was always present on her lips.

It'd probably be easier if I could.

Did she know about the scars? She must've seen them, but did she _know_? Where they came from, how they got there, the reasons behind them? I hope not.

"Everdeen?" a man's voice says behind me.

I check that my sleeves are down, then face him. My Calculus teacher with short, gelled hair and a polo shirt looks at me, the corners of his mouth turned downward into a frown.

I can't bring myself to feel uncomfortable, so I stare at him blankly. "Yeah?"

"Where were you Monday?"

He doesn't even take attendance, as far as I know. Most of my teachers couldn't care less if I decide to show up. So I just shrug. "I missed my alarm."

His expression tells me he knows that's not the case. I wonder just how much the school told my teachers about everything that happened six weeks ago. Apparently a lot more than I'd like.

"Well," he begins, his voice clipped, "I received an email yesterday that I'm supposed to tell you you're due for a counseling appointment. Mr. Witt said to tell you in class on Monday, or sooner if I saw you."

Annoyed, I ask, "When is it?"

"As soon as possible."

"Fine."

"I'm dropping off grade reports for the last quarter right now," he says. "It's in the same building."

"Sorry. I've got—I was going to go grab some…books. From the library."

I've never been a good liar, and I clearly haven't improved. His face tells me that much. "I'm sure it can wait half an hour," he says pointedly.

Bitter, I gesture for him to lead the way, following behind without a word.

XXX

To my surprise, he doesn't take me to Witt. Instead, he drops me off one level lower, outside room 231.

"Go in," he says when I hesitate outside the door.

"I thought you said I had a counseling appointment."

"You do."

Arching an eyebrow, I push the door open.

The room isn't organized that differently from the office upstairs. There are chairs in the waiting room and a person sitting at a desk. The place is a lot brighter, though. The walls are a purple color, the seats blue.

There's a hallway with small, office-looking rooms on each side of it.

I approach the man at the desk, sizing him up. He's got black glasses, thick rimmed, and tussled hair. He doesn't look much older than a typical student.

He greets me with a relaxed smile. "Hey, what can I do for you?"

"I've got some kind of counseling appointment."

"Great! Who're you seeing?"

I rub a hand over my face. "Mr. Witt."

"Whoops. You're one floor short, honey."

"My teacher brought me here. I don't know, he said I have an appointment with somebody."

"What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen."

He scans a list, then looks up at me with another bright smile. "Oh! You finally showed up. Peeta's gonna be happy."

I make a face.

The man misses it because he's too busy pulling out his cell phone. "You're about to make his day, getting him out of…what is it? Geography?"

"No, wait, I don't want to—"

"It's cool. He hates Geography," the guy says, eyes glued to his phone as he texts.

Defeated, I sit down in one of the chairs and wait.

XXX

Peeta arrives about fifteen minutes later. His face is race, and he's slightly out of breath, like he jogged over here. Probably thought I'd run away before he got here.

His head whips around as soon as he enters the room, and a huge smile splits his face when he sees me. "Hey! Sorry, I was trapped in—"

"Geography. I know."

Peeta's smile falters a little, like he's confused, then it returns. "You ready to go in?"

I stay where I am. "My Calc. teacher told me I had an appointment with Witt."

"Nah, not yet. That's sometime next week, I think. I just asked him to see if he could get you in here, since there's some peer stuff I forgot to do."

With a definite bounce in his step, he starts down the hallway. I catch up with him, and he asks, "Which room do you want?"

"I don't care."

He nods, then stops in front of one. In a flash, he reaches in, grabs a bean bag chairs off the ground, then keeps walking. Over his shoulder, he calls, "I'm stealing your bean bag." The man at the front responds with something I can't hear. Whatever it is, it makes Peeta laugh.

The thing keeps hitting against the wall or my side as we walk, so Peeta finally moves to rest it on top of his head, like women in sub-Saharan African carry their baskets.

"What are you doing?" I ask, completely baffled.

We take the room at the very end of the hallway, which is next to an exit. It has a window. I relax a bit as I watch one of the trees sway in the tiny breeze, and Peeta tosses his purple seat on the ground, saying, "You can have it."

He takes a black, mostly flat chair and pulls it up so it's across from the bean bag.

Without much of a choice, I flop down on it.

XXX

We talk for half an hour. Mostly about stupid things. Why his café is better than all the other restaurants, how the rooms should each come with their own bean bag, how Calculus has no use in the real world.

He starts and ends each conversation. Mostly I just contribute a "yeah," every once in awhile. Sometimes I catch myself paying so much attention to what's going on out the window that I don't hear a word he says, but he doesn't seem to mind either way.

XXX

In the end, I carry the bean bag back to its original room.

As we walk down the hall, Peeta says, "So I guess I'm supposed to meet with you once a week since you're my mentee. You know, have lunch or something. We were supposed to pick a day back when we first paired up but…I forgot."

"Oh." I'm not sure how much I like the sound of that, so I don't add anything else.

His face turns bright pink, and I have no idea why. "Monday, maybe? Or what about Tuesday?" I look up at him, and his eyes flit away. "I'm pretty open."

I slow down, thinking it over. Absently, I keep walking with him slightly ahead. The bean bag hits him in the butt.

He jumps, then turns to face me. Horrified, I shift it to the other arm.

With just a hint of amusement, he narrows his eyes and reaches for it. I pull it over my head, holding the damn thing away from him. "I've got it."

His arm stretches forward. Both of mine move back, further away.

He opens his mouth to say something, openly laughing now, then suddenly tenses.

I frown at him. "What?"

"What happened to your arm?"

It's my turn to freeze. I drop both my arms, moving the bean bag to rest over my stomach again as some sort of barrier between us. "Nothing."

He doesn't say anything at first, then his hand moves around the chair to brush at my sleeve.

As soon as I feel the contact, I drop the bean bag, turn to face the exit, and run.


	4. A Promise

**Hello! Holy crap, I can't believe this hit over 100 subscribers. 102, to be exact. Like the Dalmatians in that Disney sequel. That's way exciting, and supermegafoxyawesomehot of all of you. So thanks for the favorites and subscriptions. Muchas gracias por los (…reviews?), .Style, Chanceawakening, Thynerdgurl, the Guest, VMars lover, Guest (#2), ShadowCrystal26, PropertyofMe95, herehavesomeberries, Guest (#3), thevixon2010, populardarling (I used "professor" in this chapter! Woo!), it's-Twilliam, and 86. (I have no idea why, but it won't let me put the full usernames of two of you. My apologies to Peetasstyle and mrs.m. Fanfic's being an ass.)**

**In light of what happened in Connecticut this week, I just want to say one thing. If you feel sick, sad, or lonely, know that there are plenty of people out there who want to talk to you and would love to help you. I'm one of them :)**

**XXX**

Even though I'm already half-expecting it, my heart starts to pound when someone knocks on the door around 9:00. Some paranoid part of me knows it's Peeta coming to find me, even though I left him in the peer office hours ago.

My roommate glances up from the book she's reading, then jerks her thumb towards the door without a word. Unmoving, I stare at her. She scowls.

"I'll remember this," she tells me, getting to her feet.

With the bitter expression left on her face, she opens the door and asks, "Who're you?"

I hear a soft reply. The one I was dreading.

Swearing under my breath, I sit up in bed, listening as my roommate says, "I'm Johanna. Mason." Figures he'd learn her name before I do.

"Is Katniss here?" Peeta asks.

Johanna turns to face me, slightly intrigued, and I shake my head vehemently. She smirks and faces Peeta. "Yeah, shaking her head to get me to lie to you. But dishonesty's one of the seven deadly sins, so—"

"No, it's not," I interrupt, my voice sharp. My chest heaves, and anger continues to well up inside me. Especially when Johanna evacuates the doorway, inviting him in.

As soon as Peeta's in the room, his gaze locks on mine, then flits away again. Like he's uncomfortable, which wouldn't be all bad.

"Can I talk to you?"

Defensive, I just look at him. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"I'm friends with Delly." He pauses, then gives me a weak smile. "And you have a nametag on the door."

I don't say anything, trying to make it obvious that it's in his best interest (and mine) if he leaves. But Peeta keeps his feet planted, casually standing in the doorway like there isn't anything tense between us.

Johanna picks up her phone, probably ready for her Sunday-night call home. That's probably the only thing in the world capable of getting me out of bed.

I stand up. As I pass her, she says, "Told you I'd remember. Shouldn't have made me get the door."

Silently, I brush past Peeta out into the hall. He closes the door behind him, and there's an uncomfortable silence I'm unwilling to shatter.

Peeta scratches the back of his head, shifting his weight. Finally, he says, "Hey."

For a peer counselor, he's pretty awkward about this. But the sooner he leaves, the sooner I can go sit by myself somewhere, so I decide to keep my mouth shut about it. "Hi."

He blinks. "How are you?" Immediately after, his face flushes red.

I furl my eyebrows, incredulous. "Great. You?"

"I was going to come talk to you after you left, but the group for my Geo project found me first." His tone's falsely light and breezy, like he's trying really hard to be likable. Maybe that's a strategy they taught at peer counseling boot camp.

I glance at a clock on the wall next to Delly's door. "And you worked on it for nine hours, then came here?"

"No, I had to think about some things first."

It's almost like he's baiting me, trying to reel me into some long conversation. Like it's a game. One I know I'm not interested in playing.

And yet, I hear myself ask, "What things?"

He pauses, then jerks his head towards the door that leads to the stairs. People used them on move-in day, and when one of the boys accidently set off the smoke detector when he was trying to make toast in his room, but that's about it.

Regretting my choice to come out into the hall at all, I open the door and sit about halfway down the flight of gray stairs. Peeta goes down one step further so he's looking up at me, then scoots back to rest his back against the wall behind him.

He wets his lips, tapping his hand against the top of his leg. His eyes are unfocused, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times.

"What things?" I repeat, growing impatient.

The tapping stops. "I know what those were. On your arm."

"Most people do."

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to report it." My head jerks up. Frozen in place, I narrow my eyes. He glances up at me. "Well, I am."

"What's the point of talking to a peer counselor if they'll just tell on you anyway?"

"It's not like that. It's—it's only in cases where somebody's going to get hurt. If they plan to hurt other people or themselves." He flinches a little as he finishes the sentence.

Dry, I say, "Good to know."

Peeta sucks in a breath, tries to say something multiple times, then gives up. He sighs and the tapping resumes.

I'm tired of waiting for him to say something that I know will just upset me more, so I get to my feet. "See you later."

As soon as I move to the next step, he snaps out of his trance. "I'm not going to."

I stop. "Not going to what?"

"Tell anyone."

Suspicious, I say, "Why not?"

"Because I...I don't know. It doesn't feel right. Nobody's even given you a chance to get better yet."

My eyes drop to the step in front of me, and my stomach lurches. But not in an unpleasant way, really. I'm not going to be sick or cry. Maybe I'm just feeling a small sting of hope that's so foreign I can't recognize it.

Unsure what to say, I scuff my foot against the step.

His voice is louder as he says, "But you have to try. You have to pick a day to meet with me and actually show up. And talk to Witt sometimes without making him track you down." Where his words were disjointed before, they flow smoothly and quickly now. Like he's rehearsed them over and over in his head. Maybe even aloud.

I nod, silently agreeing, but I see he's not done yet. "You have to go to class and take the medication you're supposed to. And…" He deflates. "And try to find another way to handle things. I can help you, they taught me how to do that, but if something happens bad because I didn't get other people involved when I was supposed to, I don't know what I'll—"

"Okay, okay. I've got it." He takes a deep breath, his stare strangely blank as he looks at me. Like he's still lost somewhere else. To bring him back, I add, "I heard you. I understand."

"Do you promise?"

"I'll try."

He squints at me, apparently deciding whether or not that's good enough. It better be, because that's the best I can do.

My thoughts must be obvious on my face, because he lets a hesitant, sideways smile cross his lips. "Okay."

We decide Monday is our day to meet. He suggests it, mostly because that's tomorrow. I agree since Monday's the worst day of the week already, so it can't get any worse.

He gives me his phone number, and I half-heartedly offer mine in return.

Then, with a one-handed wave, Peeta trots off.

XXX

I've always hated Mondays. Even when I was a kid and nothing in my life had fallen apart yet. But then my dad died on I-90, and I lost Prim, and my mom and I turned into a pair of ghosts that are more dead than alive. And suddenly, every day was a Monday.

Johanna's still snoring when I leave the room, dressed in my cleanest pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, just like I've worn every other day since I returned to Bohm.

It takes me a few minutes to remember where the classroom is, but eventually, I find it. I'm one of the last students to show up, and I'm forced to take a seat right in the front row, almost in the center.

Someone behind me whispers, "I thought she died." The voice belongs to a girl and is familiar enough that I think she lives in my dorm. But I'm not willing to face her, so I stiffly pull out my notebook and pencil, trying to ignore her.

I notice the boy next to me watching with not-so-discreet interest. His hair is dark and oily, and as soon as I catch him looking, the blood rushes to his face and his head jerks in the opposite direction.

I slump down in my seat.

XXX

By the end of class, I fully understand how stupid it was to stay in bed last Monday. I only have this class for three hours once a week, which makes it all the more important that I don't miss it. Because I have no idea what's going on.

I'm just about to leave when my professor speaks behind me. "You alright, Katniss?"

I am, actually. Mostly because I can't bring myself to care whether or not I'm going to pass.

"Yeah, I'm good," I say quickly, ducking out of the room.

XXX

I grab a box of crackers from the mini-store on the base level of my dorm, then head upstairs. Johanna's gone, so I curl up in my bed and wrap my blanket tightly around myself.

When I wake up, I've still got another two hours before it's time for my next class. I toss and turn for awhile, hoping to slip back into unconsciousness. For some strange reason, I can't.

I lay there for about ten more minutes, then I start to pace around the room. The old familiar restlessness begins to invade me, and my mind wanders to the blade waiting in my desk drawer.

My arms cross my chest, squeezing so tightly that it cuts off some of the air, but that doesn't help anything. Even when I let them fall back to my sides, there's a weight pressing down on me, and I realize I'm gasping for breath.

I don't have to go outside this time. Johanna's not here, I can lock the door and stay in my room. Maybe I'll even be calm enough to go to my other class afterward.

On my way to the desk, my foot snags on a cord. I trip and catch myself on a standing lamp.

My computer, pulled from its hiding place under my bed, is connected to the cord tangled near my feet. I pause, then move over to it, just to make sure I didn't hit it against anything.

I turn thing on, wiping dust away from the screen. Skype pops up as soon as I'm logged in and shows that I missed a call from Gale yesterday around midnight.

His status is set to "away," which provides the perfect opportunity to slip offline before he ever noticed I was here and didn't call him back. But guilt gnaws away at me, and I decide to sit in front of the computer until he comes back.

When he does, it's not more than two minutes before he messages me.

_**You there?**_

I think I could learn to like this medium much better than talking face-to-face. But when I begin to type a message, even a simple greeting, I can't find the words.

It'll annoy him, but I settle with: _Yeah._

He starts to type, then stops.

Frowning, I add, _What's up?_

_**Not much. One of the guys is bitching because we had to get up early this morning. You?**_

My first impulse is tell him about Peeta and returning to class, but both of those topics will bring us right around to the pills I swallowed. I choose the easiest response.

_I got a new roommate, and I have no clue what's going on in Calc._

_**What'd I tell you? Should've taken Stats.**_

The tiniest smile reaches the corners of mouth, and I shoot back, _We can't all slack off like you._

_**Yeah well don't work yourself to death. I heard shit gets crazy up there when winter hits.**_

_Really?_

_**Yeah, Marvel said this kid just got beat to hell on the edge of campus last week. And somebody saw an ambulance outside a dorm after somebody OD'd.**_

I wince, pulling my hands back from the keys. As far as I know, there haven't been any other ambulances besides the one that came for me. But it's a big campus. I could've missed it.

After a significant pause, Gale starts to type again._** You busy or what?**_

Closing my eyes, I think up a decent, non-incriminating response._ Who was the kid?_

_**Who got beat up? Don't remember. Marvel thought he was going back to school sometime next week since he's still in the hospital. Something like that. Why?**_

_Just curious._

The anxiety is stifling now, and my hands are shaking. From experience, I know they'll just get worse if I don't do something about it.

_I've got some homework to finish up. I'll call you soon._

Just as I move to sign off, he types: _**Sure you will.**_

Irritated, I close the laptop, then stand up. Careful of any cords or other things to trip on, I move back to the desk and open the drawer.

By the time Johanna returns from working out, the blood's dried.

XXX

My next class, Intro to Spanish, is easy. I get an extension on a vocab quiz, and no one seems to care that I missed last week. Especially the teacher, who doesn't say a word in English the entire time.

XXX

I meet Peeta outside my dorm at 8:00.

"Hey!" he greets, surprisingly cheery given our circumstance. Probably something else he learned in peer training. "How'd your classes go?"

"Fine." To turn his attention away from me, I ask, "Where are we going?"

"Are you hungry?"

Now that I think about it, all I really ate today was a few handfuls of crackers. But my stomach aches and I'm not interested in food.

"No."

"Is there anywhere you want to go?"

I think on it, imagining us cooped up in a restaurant, or his café, or the library. The thought makes me want to crawl back to my room.

I shake my head, and he looks around, like our surroundings will give us an answer.

Shrugging, he moves towards a line of trees that aren't far from _my_ tree, the one I always visit when Johanna's in the room.

"Just for now," he says, plopping down on the ground. "Until we pick a better spot."

I can't help staring at him. I don't know how he picked this spot, or why it didn't occur to me before when it's about the only place I feel comfortable. But him sitting here, sharing the trees and sanctuary I've found, seems oddly intrusive.

But I don't have any other ideas. It's the very first day after I agreed to meet with him, too. And it's only for an hour.

I zip up my coat, feeling the breeze, and sit.


	5. Libraries, Essays, and Tic-Tac-Toe

**Hey guys! I'm really sorry about how long this took me. I worked a lot over break, and my grandpa passed away right before Christmas, so it's been a rather chaotic couple weeks. But I don't think it'll take me this long to update again, so woo! Hope you guys had good holidays :)**

**For a quick recap (because I don't even know what's going on in my story without re-reading), Peeta's aware that Katniss still resorts to SI, but he made a deal with her that, if she tries to get better, he won't tell like he's supposed to. Oh, and some kid got beat up and was in the hospital. Any guesses who it is? Last chance to predict, because (I think) it's coming up in the next chapter.**

**Thanks so much to everyone who subscribed and favorited. Special kudos to CapitvatedButHollowHungerGam es, Chanceawakening, VMars lover, Thynerdgurl, the Guest, and Beautiful Lie 5105 for reviewing for me! I honestly really do appreciate any feedback, follows, or favorites.**

**Suzanne Collins still owns the Hunger Games.**

**XXX**

On Tuesday night, I go to the library because Johanna has some guy in the room.

Sitting at a table in the corner of the library, I pull out my highlighter, glance at the Gov. reading for tomorrow, and immediately feel a strong urge to cry. No one's looking at me, but I bite my cheek—hard. Hard enough to leave teeth marks along the skin, but it's also enough to quiet the anxiety.

I make it halfway through the first chapter before the bad feelings start to creep back in. The words on the page begin to blur and tangle, and it's suddenly impossible focus to over the sounds of whispering and typing and pages turning in the room.

My leg starts to bounce, and I scratch at my arm. I focus my energy into the movement and the feeling, and it slowly erases the world around me. There's a rushing sound in my ears that drowns out the other sounds, until—

"Hey!"

A voice that's far too loud for a library interrupts me. My head shoots up and I find Delly standing in front of me, backpack slung around both of her shoulders. She smiles at me, as always, and I try not to wonder how much she saw.

"Hey, Delly," I return, somewhat dazed.

She touches the back of the chair that's across from me. "Can I sit?"

I look around. There are plenty of empty tables, particularly those in the middle of the room, but she must think I'm sitting here, wishing I had company. Sometimes I do, but right now, I couldn't care less.

I give her a short nod. "Sure."

Her bag hits the floor with a thud and she takes a seat. She lets out her breath in a heavy sigh, taking a stack of papers out of her bag, along with a red pen.

"Psych essay due tomorrow," she explains, noticing the way I watch her.

There's a long pause, mostly because I don't have anything to say in response. But any normal person would at least try to have some kind of conversation, so I slowly ask, "What's yours about?"

"Effects of the different bullying-prevention methods in middle schools." She shrugs. "Didn't turn out as well as I hoped, but maybe Peeta can save it."

In spite of myself, I perk up. "Peeta?"

Delly lifts the essay to show me. "I'm editing his. Awful at it, but he pretends I'm not."

I nod, glance down at the textbook in my hands, then back at Delly. "What's his about?" Some paranoid part of me thinks it's suicide, depression, anything that'd make me feel like a case study for him.

Delly hesitates, her smile slipping a little, then answers, "Child abuse."

I don't have to fake any interest now. "What about it?"

"Reasons people do it, how and why they stop, that kind of thing."

I pause and furl my eyebrows, thinking this over. It doesn't seem to fit. "He wrote about child abusers? Peeta?"

Her head drops, and she starts to read the essay. "Mmhm."

Apparently I've said something wrong, though I don't have any idea what it is. But I've never seen Delly quiet like this in my life. I'm always the one who ends our conversations.

I try my best to read again, but it's no use. My heart is still pounding in my throat.

I can't imagine the Peeta I know choosing to write about a topic like that, but that isn't saying much. For the first time, I realize I know much less about him than he knows about me.

"Were you told what you had to write about?"

"No," Delly says, smiling at me again, before she dives back into the essay.

By the time I start in on the third chapter, Delly finishes her math. She shuffles the sheets of paper into a neat pile and places it in her blue binder. "I've got a Skype date with my dad," she tells me lightly, getting to her feet. "Then I've got to hunt down Peeta."

Half-heartedly, I suggest, "I can just give the essay to him in Government tomorrow if you want me to. Unless he needs it tonight."

She gives me a smile that's a lot more grateful than it needs to be. "Sure! It isn't due until Friday, and he's working tonight anyway."

Delly rummages around in her backpack until she finds the essay, then she hands it to me. I glance at it and notice that nearly every criticism she's written is followed by a smiley face of some kind.

Apparently she notices me looking, because she hesitates before standing up. "Don't read it, though," she says, and I frown. I wasn't planning on it in the first place. But she misreads my expression and continues, "He gets self-conscious since English isn't really his thing. He wouldn't like it if I let anyone else read his writing. Especially you."

I'm not sure what to make of that comment, so I don't say anything beyond, "I won't." She gets up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, and I nod at her. "See you around, Delly."

XXX

I keep my word about the paper. With a gruff, "Here," I hand Peeta the essay during Government, tell him how I got it, and promise I didn't read anything.

"Thanks for bringing it," Peeta says quickly, stashing it away in his backpack. I notice the corner of the essay is instantly crushed in the corner of his bag underneath some other textbook, but he doesn't seem too concerned. Absently, I lean forward to see further in his bag and notice that the essay's not the only loose paper bent up in side.

Peeta's voice brings me back: "If you see my Bio lab in there, let me know. I need it for my next class."

My head jerks up to look at him, cheeks burning red. I'd be irritated if anyone tried to peek inside something of mine, but I notice the hint of a slightly amused smile on his face.

I start to shuffle past him. "Sorry."

It's my first class back, and I'm completely behind on the reading, so I can hardly wait to move to my normal, back-of-the-room desk.

Unsurprisingly, he tries to stop me. Or "reach out," as the Counseling Department's pamphlet reads. "You can—"

"Thanks, but I don't like sitting in the front."

Without giving him a chance to try some other tactic, I make my way to the back, or as far back as I'm allowed to go. Plenty of kids have dropped out of the class by now, leaving a number of empty seats, but Brown won't let anyone sit in the last two rows.

I've barely had time to start looking for a notebook when I hear Peeta's backpacking flopping down on the aisle desk next to me. Somehow, I don't have to look up to know that it's him—maybe he's the only one who'd choose to sit by me, maybe I completely understand Peeta and his mentoring tactics by this point. Or maybe, after spending so much time wandering around campus and that mental home by myself, I've found a way to tell when I'm near someone who actually recognizes me.

Slowly, I turn my head to face him, biting back a sigh. On the positive side, I don't have to worry about someone worse taking the seat. But he's drawing attention to me, or at least it feels that way. I can see a girl up front, who I've never talked to in my life, staring up at us.

"I'm fine by myself," I tell him, watching as he sits down and mirrors my movements, pulling out a notebook of his own.

His eyebrows furl, but the expression's gone almost immediately after. "I know," he replies. "I've been waiting for the chance to move seats since the second week of class. Professor Brown always stares at me when she's giving her lectures." He lowers his voice, tilting his head closer to mine. "I think she can tell I'm not really taking many notes. I don't know how. She just knows."

"Then why bother with a notebook?" I ask, pointing at his.

Peeta opens his mouth, sucks in a breath, then closes it again. "No reason."

I blink.

He looks at me, apparently waiting for me to say something else, but nothing comes to mind. His finger tapping starts again. After a few more seconds of this, he frowns. In a more serious, quiet tone, he says, "I draw."

"You what?"

"Draw. That's why I bring my notebook."

"Draw what?"

He pulls the notebook closer to him, like he thinks I'll pry it out from under his fingers. "Nothing. Shapes, people, trees, whatever comes to mind." His grip on the paper tightens. "They're not very good."

I don't get the chance to see any for myself because, right on time, Brown starts to lecture.

Peeta doesn't bother with any note-taking pretenses now that he's sitting in the back. His notebook remains tightly shut on his desk, and he twirls a pen up and down between his thumb and index finger. This entertains me for about two minutes after I stop trying to follow the lecture, then I feel my concentration slipping.

Frustrated, I lean back against my chair, slumping down, and close my eyes. I've been sleeping better compared to my first week back, so it's nearly impossible to slip into unconsciousness, even with the lull of Brown's voice and the bubbling anxiety that reminds me how terribly behind I am.

At that thought, my stomach lurches, and my hand instantly jumps to cover it. Peeta casts me a sideways glance. My fingers return to my desk, and he looks back towards the front. I don't think he's any more focused than I am, but he's much better at pretending.

Shortly after that, he catches me pinching the bridge of bridge of my nose, eyes shut tight, "You okay?" he asks.

"Can I look at your pictures?"

He coughs, fingers tapping the top of the notebook. "I told you they aren't very good."

"I don't care. I just need to do something."

Frowning at me, he thinks on it, then turns to the very last page. I sit up and lean over, trying to get a good look, and find that it's blank.

"I'll show you some on Monday, when we meet," he says, drawing lines across the blank sheet. Once he's done, I see that it's a grid. Smirking, he moves his pen to draw a thick 'X' in the corner.

He hands me the pen and I silently take it, marking the middle square with a misshapen 'O'.

I win the game, because he lets me. I know, because I win three in a row before he finally takes one, and sometimes he misses the obvious choices. But Peeta's not stupid; he could win a game of tic-tac-toe if he really wanted to.

XXX

He doesn't win much on Friday either. We sit in the back, playing the entire time.

When it starts to become difficult to concentrate on the game, I try to focus on the little bit of progress I'm making on the textbook. I'm still behind, and desperation seeps in every once in awhile when it's late and I just want to sleep, but I try.

But sometimes, when he's flipping through the notebook to find sheets we haven't used, I'm able to catch a glimpse of his drawings. Whenever he sees me looking, he immediately covers the picture with his hand, even though I don't find anything wrong with the art I see.

He hides some of the images faster than the others. At one point, I spot a picture of a forest, and he pretends he doesn't notice me staring at it. Then, on the next page, I don't see more than someone's arm before his hands jumps on it, flipping the paper so fast I think he might rip it.


	6. The Back Room

**Hello! Many, many thanks to everyone who read, favorited, or subscribed. As always, I also want to express my gratitude to all of you who left comments; to be honest, I felt like this story was in limbo, then I had some really wonderful reviews that changed the whole way I look at it. So thank you so much to Sara, Chanceawakening, MaidenAlice, ugh ugh ugh ugh (I totally thought your review was going to be a flame! XD), Thynerdgurl, Anon (I don't think there's a better compliment for a story like mine than the one you gave me, and I'm really honored), Thundarrgirl, Guest, ignitetheballoon, and Calliwishis. **

**Also, a Guest asked me if Haymitch was going to make an appearance all the way back on Chapter 3, and I've finally remembered to answer that. The answer is a very tentative 'yes,' but if things works out the way I expect, it won't be much more than a cameo, kind of like Finnick had in Chapter 1. I'm **_**so**_** scared of writing Haymitch.**

**As usual, I don't own **_**Hunger Games**_**. **

**XXX**

The weekend's bad. I spend the entire thing alone, rotating between my dorm, the library, the cafeteria, and my tree. But it's the worst on Sunday night, when I return to my dorm room.

As soon as I swing the door open, every single one of my senses is instantly under attack. I hear Johanna's garbled voice and her moan, muffled by the lips of someone else who's sprawled out on top of her. I barely catch a glimpse of the boy's naked backside before I retreat, slamming the door shut behind me.

I don't bother waiting to see if the pair of them will stop long enough for me to grab my Calculus notes to study. And even if they do take it somewhere else, there's no way I'm going back in that room before I have to.

As usual, when I don't have anywhere else to go, I find my tree. It doesn't matter how murky and overcast it is outside, or that gusts of wind seek me in the shade, chilling me to my bones.

I stay there like that—curled up under my tree—for awhile. It could be thirty minutes, an hour, two, for all I know. But an unshakeable thought plants itself in my mind: I don't want to be here.

I don't want to sit in the shade, where every breeze sends me ducking for shelter in my arms.

But where else can I go?

I think about the library, which tends to be crowded on Sunday, or the living area on the first floor of my dorm. But I have nothing to do in the library but sit by myself. If I go back to the dorm, I'll have to see Johanna's friend or whoever he is walking out. My cheeks burn red at the thought.

There are small restaurants and study coves, and I wander around campus, looking for the right place. But they all seem foreign and unwelcoming, colder inside than out.

Eventually, a fireplace I spot through the windows of a café catches my attention. I move towards it, my mind slowly making the connection. It's a place with warm drinks and food and bread. It seems so opposite from every other gray place on campus that I have to wonder if I was subconsciously seeking it out the whole time.

Bon Café is packed, as I should've expected. The lights inside are dim, but the fireplace roars to life, bathing the room in constantly-moving shadows. My eyes automatically slide to the counter, where two workers are hurrying around, trying to please the giant line leading to the register.

I stand on my tiptoes, trying to get a good look at the employees' faces. One might be the cranky woman who told Peeta to do the dishes the first night I visited him here, but I can't but sure. Neither of them are people who'll recognize me. I'm not sure if that's a relief or not, but I work my way through the crowd, searching for faces I might know. Whether that's because I want to avoid them or sit with them, I can't say.

It isn't long before the room starts to feel claustrophobic and overwhelming, like it's all moving too fast and too slow at the same time. I take in the groups and couples and laughter, and that's all I need to realize I shouldn't have come here. That, for some indefinable reason, I don't belong here.

Someone opens the door at the front, all the way across the room from me, and I watch the people near it collectively tremble at the cold wind. I long for it now, because at least I know the wind outside will let me breathe.

The line pushes forward, trying to get away from the open doorway, and I realize how difficult it'll be to move against the group of them to get out. I'll have to nudge and push through, but I don't want any of them to notice me.

Verging on desperate, I try to stake out an alternate way to leave. Unless I want to dive through one of the closed windows, there isn't much I can do.

Then, I hear a door whisking open somewhere in the back room, behind the counter. I move towards the sound, lifting my head to get a better look.

I cautiously watch the two workers. If I can just slip through the open doorway behind them and disappear into the back, I'll be gone before anyone knows it. I'm sure students aren't supposed to go behind the counter, but everyone's distracted anyway. And there are only a few feet from the edge of the counter to the open doorway that leads to the other room.

Crouching a little, I smoothly slide through the doorway. I move to the right and glance behind me, making sure no one saw. The employees stay where they are up front, bustling around, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I turn back around to face the room. There are stacks of boxes that contain food ingredients and cleaning supplies. Various juices and energy drinks fill a refrigerator that's pressed up against the wall, and I see an oven in the corner. Tall, wooden shelves house so many rags, dishes, and cleaning supplies that I can't see over the top of them.

All in all, the place is organized and clean, with everything in its place.

As I move towards the door that leads outside, there's a sudden movement somewhere off to my left. I jump, sucking in a mouthful of air, and see Peeta's head peeking out from behind one of the shelves.

"Katniss?" he asks, disbelief written on his face.

The accusation passes my lips before I can stop it. "Were you hiding from me?"

"What?"

"What are you doing back here?"

He blinks. "I work here."

"I didn't see you doing anything up front. They need help up there."

Gingerly, he steps out from behind the shelf. "I got off work fifteen minutes ago, but I came back for my coat. Forgot it on the employee rack."

I step closer to him and glance around the corner, where he was standing before. Sure enough, I see what has to be his black coat hanging on a plastic peg drilled into the shelf.

"Oh." I clear my throat. "I was looking for—"

He smiles. "Bread?"

"A way out. It's packed up front." His eyebrows crease. Trying to be nonchalant, I give him a one-handed wave. "Looks like I found one, so I'll see you later."

Peeta's clearly confused, but he doesn't stop me. I open the backdoor and feel another gust of wind.

I turn back, ready to thank him for letting me go this way, but I see his attention's focused on the woman who must've entered through the doorway, silent as a cat, while my back was turned.

"What've I told you about bringing people back here?" she snaps at him, though her hard gaze locks on me.

Something about her sets my nerves on edge. The way she talks to him, the slightly disgusted look on her face as she eyes me up and down.

"He didn't invite me back here," I say flatly, setting my jaw. "I—"

"She's coming with me to pick up Taff," Peeta interrupts, and I frown, looking at him. "I just wanted to grab my coat before we left, and it didn't make sense to have her wait outside."

The woman purses her lips as her eyes flit back to me for a split second, before returning to Peeta. "If I catch her back here again, you're fired." She shoos him away, impatient. "Now go get your brother before they throw him out on the street."

Peeta nods and silently beckons for me to head out first. I do, but only after shooting the woman a dark look.

Once we're outside with the door shut tightly behind us, shivering in the wind, he finally pulls his jacket on. I watch, sick with guilt, and say, "You shouldn't have covered for me if it meant getting in trouble with your boss."

Peeta stops me, shaking his head. "She always says that. It doesn't matter, she won't fire me." He must notice the suspicion on my face because he shrugs. "She's my mom."

My head snaps back to look at the backdoor, as if the woman will be waiting there to yell at him again. "Your mom?"

"My dad owns Bon. We've got another one in the city, so he's always working there."

At a loss, I slowly begin to shuffle forward, away from the building. "She shouldn't talk to you like that."

Peeta doesn't seem to have an answer for me. There's a funny expression on his face, one I can't read, so I decide to move on. "Who did you say we're picking up?"

"My brother."

"From where?"

He rubs a hand over his face, then buries it in his curls. "He's getting out of the hospital."

I tense, eyes widening, and immediately remember what Gale wrote last time we spoke: _Marvel said this kid got beat to hell on the edge of campus last week._

"What happened?" I ask, though my instincts tell me I'm overstepping my boundaries.

"Nothing." Peeta's voice sounds so tired that I regret asking. But he conjures up a lethargic smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Katniss."

He starts to walk away, and I pause, thinking about Peeta, his mother, what Gale said. I end up hurrying after him, following behind like a child. "I don't mind helping you move him out. If he has stuff he needs carried or...whatever."

Peeta squints at me over his shoulder, slowing his pace. "No, it's okay, thanks. I've got it."

I have no right to be annoyed by his refusal, but I am. "Well, I can't go back to my room, your cafe's out, and I'm sick of the library."

"Why can't you go back to your room?"

Sighing, I wish I could take the words back. The last thing I want to do is tell him what I saw, even though there's a chance I'm the only person left on campus who'd be embarrassed by it. When his curious look doesn't vanish, I half-heartedly answer, "My roommate had a guy there, last time I checked."

A few seconds pass, then he understands. His head drops, eyes jumping to the ground. To my surprise, there's a fresh red tinge to his cheeks. For the second time today, he seems unsure what to say in response. I don't help him this time.

Eventually, he mutters, "You can come if you want, but my brother's just going to sign some paperwork and change into the clothes I bring, then we're taking a cab right back here."

"I want to go." He raises an eyebrow, and I mirror the movement, saying, "Come on."

XXX

I made a big mistake, but it's not until a taxi drops us off at the hospital entrance that I realize it. If Peeta's brother was injured on campus, of course they brought him to the same hospital they took me. And I may not have been fully conscious when they brought me in, but the familiarity of the emergency room as we pass by it leaves my palms sweating.

Through the windows, I see an ambulance with flashing lights pull up, and my mind leaps to imagine all the possible scenarios. Is the person from a car accident, like my dad? A suicide, like the green-eyed man from the mental home I stayed in? Or maybe a drowning victim?

My legs feel like jelly underneath me, and the world starts to spin. The familiar itching that leads to new scars (or worse) when it catches me unaware swells up in my throat, consuming me. The world around me goes numb, and I struggle to remember why I'm here, how I got here, who I'm with.

I forget everything. Everything except the hospital, anyway. Because no matter how hard I try, I can't forget where I am and what it was like last time.

There were tubes and muffled voices, and a weight that made it impossible to breathe, let alone open my mouth to call for help.

Someone with a white glove held my hand.

At one point, I'd unsuccessfully tried to tell the doctors they might as well give up. _I'm already gone_, the voice inside my head had repeated, over and over. _Sleeping without the dreams._

But, as I felt the constant pressure of that latex hand in mine until morning, they brought me back to the world.


	7. Taftan

**As always, thanks very much for all the favorites, follows, and reviews! Special thanks to Thundarrgirl, Chanceawakening, Thynerdgurl, Sara, rayleen14, MaidenAlice, Guest (#1), Guest (#2), and Scrivener50.**

**FYI. Another character has a cameo in this chapter. It might seem like a totally random choice, but. I have my reasons. If you can guess why, I'll give you and your movie knowledge a gold star. And not the "you tried" kind. The "you are a winner" kind.**

**Suzanne Collins owns Hunger Games.**

**XXX**

I'm not sure how much time passes before I realize that the voice calling my name isn't a figment of my imagination.

_Katniss_, it says, foggy in the back of my mind. _Katniss_.

It also asks me a question or two, but I can't understand. Disoriented, I blink, and my eyes focus on Peeta. He's standing in front of me, blocking my path, eyebrows creased in what must be a mixture of worry and confusion.

"What?" I ask, sounding raspy. My breath comes out in shaky, shallow wheezes, like I ran a mile to get here.

"What happened?"

I try to walk past him, my lips shut tight, but black spots appear in front of my eyes. For a split second, the world shifts violently, and I hold my hand out in front of me to keep my balance. "I forgot to eat lunch. Dinner, whatever it is," I explain to him, running a hand over my face. "My brain stops working when I'm hungry."

He doesn't move or answer, apparently still disconcerted. I catch him searching my eyes for some piece of the truth, and I glare at the white tile ground with a new determination.

"Come on, there's a bench right here," Peeta says, pointing at a plastic bench pressed against the wall. It's across from a window that overlooks the busy street that leads back to Bohm.

"We need to get your brother."

"He's fine, Katniss." I frown at him, and he sighs. "Just..."

His hand reaches forward, fingers jutting out, to gently brush against my hip, prodding me towards the seat before instantly pulling back. I'd be angry if I wasn't so distracted by the goose bumps that break out all over my body. There are five tiny specs of heat where each finger was just a few moments before.

Dazed, I obey the gesture and gracelessly flop onto the bench. He stands a few feet away, most likely gauging my mood, then eases down onto the spot next to me. His hands clasp together in his lap and he turns his head to the side for a better look at me.

Before he can ask anything else, I say, "I'll wait here. You go up."

"Are you sick?"

"No, just hungry." Now would be the perfect time for a sheepish, half-hearted smile, but I can't do it. Stony-faced, I point towards the elevator. "He's probably waiting right upstairs."

Peeta gives me one last look, a mixture of suspicion and resignation. Maybe even the slightest hint of annoyance. I blink, oddly uncomfortable knowing I managed to bother someone as even-tempered as he is. I'm used to frustrating people, and saying things I shouldn't, but at least Gale fights back. My mother doesn't, but I don't think I could ever feel guilty for snapping at her after the type of parent she's been—especially after Dad died. Then Prim.

Maybe that's why she decided to move away from New York; I'm not enough to stick around for.

Peeta finally starts to move. "Be right back."

I nod absently.

Prim rarely got angry at me. At anyone, really. Even after we lost Dad and I started failing classes in high school, to the point that I wanted to drop out. At least I had a good excuse. I was taking on as many work hours as I could, trying to make up for the lost income, and I didn't have time for much else.

The elevator doors close behind Peeta. As soon as he's gone, I'm aware of the people constantly moving in the hallway, the sirens outside, how cold the bench feels despite my jeans. I wipe my hands on my pants, watching the activity in the emergency room. My only other option is to look out the window, but the traffic's moving so fast it makes me dizzy.

The ER doors swing open into the hallway towards me, and a doctor pushes through them. He's dressed in all white with a stethoscope slung around his neck, holding a cup of something in his right hand.

My immediate thought is that he's carrying blood, and I cringe, shrinking away from him as he passes me. My movement catches his eye and he stops, turning to face me.

There's something familiar about him. Just looking at his face, his posture, his expression, tells me I've met him before. Probably once a few years ago.

My eyes zero back in on the object in his hand, and he follows my gaze. Then he speaks, and I know exactly where he's from.

"It's fruit," he says, holding the cup out to show me and lifting his other hand so I can see the spoon he's got.

"You were in the ambulance." He raises his eyebrows, inspecting me, and I clear my throat. "I—You were sitting on my right."

"I remember you." He steps closer. "You go to Bohm."

After all the patients he has, I can't imagine why he'd recognize me. Maybe he doesn't get as many suicidal patients as I thought.

My instincts tell me to be quiet and let him go on his way, but the gentle expression on his face prompts me to respond. "Yeah. You got me from my dorm room." I wasn't conscious for that part of it, but I can't remember anyone else from the ambulance.

I meet his eyes. He doesn't look surprised or confused, which tells me everything I need to know: He remembers exactly who I am and what I did.

Instead of running for the hills like I normally would, I stay where I am. It's impossible for me to walk away from him. I'm weighed down by a morbid curiosity and fear.

"Do you...get a lot of people like me?" I ask. To my surprise, he sits on the bench next to me, opening his fruit cup.

"Some. More middle-aged people than students." I look at my hands, silent. He continues, "You visiting a friend?"

Quiet as I can, I scoff, remembering the way I managed to bother the one person I was starting to consider a friend just a few minutes ago. "No. Don't really have any to visit." I hesitate. Softer than before, I add, "I'm not very good at making friends."

The 'ding' of the elevator saves him from responding. Holding a bag filled with what look like clothes and toiletries, Peeta returns with a slightly taller, skinnier man following behind him. His brother (I assume) has a fading black eye, with what looks like a broken nose. He walks with a slight limp that becomes even more apparent when he leans forward to mutter something to Peeta, who shrugs him off as they approach us.

"We'll see," the doctor says, rising to his feet. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I'm still betting on you."

Peeta gives me a warm, somewhat weary smile as the doctor disappears down the hallway, unopened fruit cup in hand.

"I'm Taftan," Peeta's brother says with a short nod when they reach me.

I return it, trying not to stare at his bruises. "Katniss."

"I've heard." Immediately, I note that he's fiery and amused, without a trace of Peeta's gentleness.

Something about the shit-eating grin on his face sends a wave of heat rushing up my neck to my cheeks. Before I have to reply, Peeta hands his brother a cell phone, "Here, you can call the cab."

XXX

Peeta's silent in the taxi. Taftan sits in the front, and I see him watching the pair of us in the mirror. He tries to start multiple conversations, but it isn't long before they die off into silence.

After telling the driver to take a left hand turn that will lead us to an apartment complex, Taftan turns to look at us again, cocking his head to the side. "So, who's the doctor?"

"What?"

"Who were you talking to? Never seen an ER guy stop for a quick chat before."

I shrug, looking out the window. "I don't know. Guess he just wanted a place to sit for his break."

"Doc wouldn't have sat down next to me," Taftan says, and my gaze slides over to meet his. "Then again, most people wouldn't choose to sit next to a fighting, failing, can't-keep-his-dick-in-his-pants son of a bitch."

I start at the venom in Peeta's voice as he cuts in. "Stop."

My shock must show on my face because the amusement returns to Taftan's face. He glances over at Peeta, eyebrows furled. "What? I could tell her a lot worse stories than that."

"We didn't have to come pick you up," Peeta reminds him, resting his arms on his legs as he leans forward, gritting his teeth.

Taftan opens his mouth to shoot back some remark, one I already know will cut deep. Some strange protective instinct takes over, and I interrupt before he can get more than two words out. "You got in a fight?"

"Not much of one," he answers, temporarily distracted by my question. "Got jumped by three assholes at once. Sober assholes, too."

"And you weren't?"

He snorts in response, and I leave it alone. There's another uncomfortable silence, and I can tell he won't wait long to break it. But I can't think of any question or statement that doesn't sound forced or intrusive.

Turns out, I don't have to, because Taftan starts to explain exactly how the fight came to be. It's every bit as disgusting and crude as I expected.

"...found out her name was Demi afterward, so I don't know why that bitch was calling herself—"

Peeta rubs a hand over his face, looking bitter. "That's enough."

"Since when do you stand up to family?" Taftan smirks.

I'm not sure what's so offensive about that, but Peeta's face goes a sickly, pale white. Then, almost instantly, it turns bright red in anger. I don't know what he's going to say, or if it's warranted, but I don't want to sit back and listen to them argue again. And I'm almost positive that whatever insults Peeta has up his sleeve, Taftan's are worse.

"I did know that doctor," I blurt out, and they both suddenly seem to remember I'm here. "The one who was sitting by me."

Without taking his narrow eyes off Peeta, Taftan says, "You hang around hospitals a lot, Katniss?"

I shake my head, swallowing and fumbling for an explanation that won't embarrass me. But his piercing gaze moves to meet mine, and it's as if he's dragging the truth out of me, not unlike the softer, gentler look I sometimes get from Peeta when we meet.

"He was there when I woke up in an ambulance that got me after I took too many Aspirin a few months ago."

Even though Peeta already knows, I find myself looking everywhere but at him. It's the first time I think I've admitted to anything out loud, and the first time he's heard the story from my own mouth.

"You OD'd?" Taftan asks. "On Aspirin? Who the hell OD's on Aspirin?" He pauses. "Ah. Wasn't an accident, was it?"

I can feel Peeta's stare as I answer, "No."

Taftan points at Peeta, looking at him. "You left that part out."

"It wasn't your business."

No one has anything to say after that. Not even Peeta's brother, who keeps quiet until we reach the outside of an apartment complex near Bohm. "This is me," he says to the driver, who stops. He gets out of the car, hauling the bag Peeta was carrying with him. Just before he shuts the door, he sticks his head back inside, hand resting on top of the roof of the car.

"Thanks for seeing me out," he tells Peeta, his voice flat. He moves back, shutting the door behind him, and gives me a lazy wave before heading inside.

I watch him go while Peeta pays the driver. When he's done, he says, "You okay with walking the rest of the way back?"

I'm not brave enough to look at him, so I open the car door and get out in response. He leaves through the other side and meets up with me on the sidewalk. For awhile, the only sound is our footsteps against the concrete and the occasional honking traffic on the road as we head back to Bohm.

But as soon as the dorms and buildings are visible, it's impossible for me to keep quiet, knowing that he'll head off to his dorm and I'll go to mine. By then, the opportunity to say what's been racing through my mind for the last ten minutes will have passed.

"Peeta?" I begin uncomfortably, facing him. "Thanks for taking me with you. And...not telling him about me."

"I did tell him about you," he says. "I told him you're Katniss Everdeen, you're in my Gov. class, and you come into the cafe sometimes."

I stop in my tracks.

I'm so used to thinking that anyone who talks about me is automatically going to mention what I did and how crazy I am. It never occurred to me that Peeta might have a whole different story to tell.

Swallowing, I start to walk again with a foreign tingling in the pit of my stomach. A senseless, obscure longing roots itself somewhere deep under my skin.


	8. Two Weeks

**Hello! Thanks again for the wonderful response with favorites, follows, and reviews. Special thanks to MaidenAlice, Thundarrgirl, rayleen14, VMars lover, ignitetheballoon, SweetlovingPrim, Thynerdgurl, Chanceawakening, the Guest, Scriverner50, AVG18, mackie80, and Beautiful Lie 5105. **

**I had an amazing response to the last chapter with lots of really great comments, so I'm updating a day early! Heads up, I'm really iffy on this chapter and its montage-ness. It's different than the pace and format of the previous chapters, so I'd love feedback on it.**

**Suzanne Collins owns Hunger Games.**

**XXX**

Over the next two weeks, the coursework piles up, teachers stop being so patient with me, and it's a struggle dragging myself out of bed in the morning and falling asleep at night.

I don't tell Peeta any of this during our meetings. Instead, we talk about our teachers, his job, what we're doing for Thanksgiving Break. But never the stress and never his family. It seems stupid making him meet with me for an hour just to talk about my life, but I can't bring myself to tell him he doesn't have to come.

Two days after our visit to the hospital, on his way to work, he finds me leaning against my tree despite the freezing cold, hunched over my homework. I can't focus with Johanna in the room, the study areas are packed, and I don't think the library has a single table open.

"Come to Bon," he says, offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. "We've got a few places to sit that people forget about." He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and I notice just how red his cheeks are in the cold. "I think the sugar cookies are on sale, too."

Turns out his mother isn't working, which explains the "great sale" he gives me. One hundred percent off.

He sits with me at a corner in the table on his break, sipping at some drink.

"I think your last five dates might be wrong," he says as I copy a timeline from my Government textbook.

I double check, and sure enough, I mixed the numbers up. That's when I realize it might not hurt to invite him along when I'm studying.

XXX

Patient as Peeta might be, I bite my tongue and keep my eyes planted on the Government textbook in my hands. He's trying to study and I've interrupted him twice already. If our positions were switched, I would've kicked him out by now.

Still, that doesn't stop the frustrated grunt that passes my lips when I realize I've still got another twenty pages to read before I can start studying for the test tomorrow.

He looks up, peeking over the top of his own propped-up book. "What?"

"Nothing."

Occasionally glancing up at me, Peeta returns to his studying. Even though he has a demanding job, family troubles, difficult classes, and all his peer counseling duties, he's still less behind than I am.

"How did you get all the reading done?" I ask, forgetting about my self-inflicted rule of quiet.

He shrugs with a meek smile. "Usually I don't. I just had more free time this week, I guess."

I blink, trying to figure out exactly where all my time went. The last week is a blur and mess of emotions that I can't hope to untangle.

Peeta seems to notice the jealous, frustrated look on my face because he adds, "I don't sleep much."

Flipping the page of my book, I reply, "I do." More than I should. But it's getting better.

XXX

Sitting on my bed, I toss my worn Spanish notes to the side. I've folded the sheet in half multiple times, trying to test myself on the words, but it's no use. I don't know any of them.

It's already obvious that I won't pass the quiz I'm taking in an hour, and even if I do, I have a feeling I failed my Government test this morning.

The familiar itching that leaves me breathless and trembling starts to seep through me. I cover my face, burying my hands in my hair as the old cycle of nasty thoughts makes its way through my mind.

_I'll lose the scholarships. I'll drop out and never graduate. And Prim will never see me graduate like she wanted, even if I stay._

I get rid of the thoughts, if only for a moment, but one look at the extensive vocabulary list sends me ducking for cover—and a blade.

XXX

"You don't even take Calculus."

"I don't care. Let me see it."

Peeta pulls my notebook from my hands, then the sheet of paper I'm trying a few problems on. He takes my pencil out of my hand, fingers brushing against my own, and starts to tap it against the sheet as he reads the problem.

"The book says I should be getting negative one for my answer," I tell him.

The wrinkle above his eyebrow forms in a look of concentration that I'm growing exceedingly familiar with. He starts to write slowly, a large pause between each step, and I watch over his shoulder.

"You can't do that," I say as he tries to cancel two numbers that don't work.

"Yes, I can."

I reach forward to take the paper from him but he immediately covers it with the palm of his hand, pinning it to the table.

Tugging on the edges, I say, "Give it to me."

"I'm not done yet!" He lets out a short laugh, trying to pry my fingers off the corner of the sheet.

I stand up. "It's fine. I'll just ask somebody else."

"Wait," Peeta says, just before I start to walk away. "Go get Delly. She took this back in high school."

It's not fair, but Delly's probably the last person I want to ask for help. I found out they've been friends since they were kids, and there's an agitation that grows in my chest every time she's with us. I'm not sure when it started or why it's happening, but I try to avoid her whenever possible.

Still, I don't have any good reason not to listen to him, so I begrudgingly stand up and leave our study alcove, crossing the hallway and knocking on her door. She answers and her lips curve up into a smile when she sees me.

"Do you have time to help with Calc?" I ask, my voice flat. "Peeta told me to come find you."

She frowns, thinking, then glances back into her room. "Sure! For a couple minutes. I've been wanting a break from my essay, anyway."

I lead her back to our spot, stiffly taking my seat on the couch next to Peeta. Delly glances at the work Peeta's done then holds her hand out for a pencil. He gives it to her, then she starts to erase.

"Hey!" he says, reaching out a hand to still the pencil. "I got negative one. That's the answer."

"These numbers can't cancel out," she says, brushing her index finger along the sheet.

I lean back into the cushion behind me, watching them lightly argue so effortlessly. When I talk to Peeta, our conversations are almost always disjointed and sometimes awkward, and that's clearly my fault.

Delly talks a reluctant Peeta through the problem, occasionally looking over at me, but her explanation's nothing but a dull hum to me.

My right hand finds the clothed underside of my left arm, which is still tender and sensitive. I absently start to scratch, my eyes glued to a scuff on the table.

When I finally look up and rejoin the real world, Delly's rising to her feet. "Hope that helps, Katniss," she says, handing the pencil back to Peeta. "I'll be in my room for a while longer if you get stuck again."

Silent, I lean forward, pulling my hand away from my arm. When I turn to Peeta, I find him watching me, all the humor gone from his face.

I lift the Calculus book back to my lap and point at the next problem. Quietly, I ask, "Can you show me how to do this one?"

XXX

Inviting him to study in my room was a good idea, even though it felt uncomfortable at first. After a study meeting or two, I decide I don't like working alone as much as I thought.

He's next to me on the bed, cross-legged posture matching my own, with his back against the wall. His eyes quickly scan the page of his Psych book, twirling a yellow highlighter between his fingers.

It's been at least half an hour since either of us talked, and these are usually the moments I like best: the silent ones where I can work by myself until things start to get bad, then look up and find him there.

I'm not sure what it is, or how he does it, but there's something calming about glancing across from me and seeing someone normal. Makes me think I could be that way too, if I try hard enough.

Or at least I can pretend to be, for his sake. I don't think he'd be here if he thought I was still the crazy mentee from before.

XXX

Today, his presence doesn't help anything. Because, whether Peeta's cramming alongside me or not, I've got a large math test tomorrow that I'll never be ready for. Then I'll go on Thanksgiving Break and spend it with my mother, both dreading and anticipating my return to Bohm the whole time.

And he'll spend break with his family. Though apparently he'll have Delly to keep him company because their families are close, so he'll be just fine.

Trying to stop myself from traveling down that path, I rest the side of my head against the wall and close my eyes. Peeta doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he just understands that interrupting me will do more damage than good.

I start in on the Calculus two more times before this control tactic stops working. By then, the negative thoughts cut through my concentration like a knife.

Jumping to my feet, I quickly say, "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

My voice is jumpy and forced as I lie, "Bathroom."

He gives me a long look, then nods, gaze dropping back to his work.

I nearly pass through the door before I remember why I'm leaving in the first place. Awkwardly, I backtrack, pulling open the desk drawer and taking out the cold metal object inside. I put it in my jacket pocket before I turn around to make sure Peeta wasn't watching.

As far as I can see, I'm in the clear.

When I come back and throw the object back in its hiding place, Peeta puts his book down on top of my blanket. I ignore the gesture and walk to the bed, pulling myself back to my spot.

I bury my face in the Calculus notes that don't look any more familiar now than they did before I left. But, with a new calm that rushes through me in waves, I can't bring myself to care.

"You did that last week," Peeta says quietly, a hard edge under each word.

I take as long of a silence as I can, like I'm busy studying my notes. "Hmm?"

"When I was in here on Wednesday, you pulled something out of your desk then left."

Frowning, I scratch the back of my neck. "So?"

There's another silence, one that's so much heavier and darker than usual. In just a few seconds, there's a palpable shift that makes me feel like I'm sitting with a stranger. Especially when he sucks in a breath, lets it out once, then says, "You promised."

My stomach turns to ice, but I try to pass it off with a hollow snort. "Promised not to take things from my desk?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I don't." I cling to my Calculus notes like a lifeline to keep my hands from shaking. "And you should stop making assumptions about what I keep in my desk drawers. It's nothing bad."

He shakes his head, wry smile on his lips as he eyes the desk.

"I don't have to prove anything to you," I say, and his gaze snaps up to meet mine.

We stare at each other, and I decide I won't be the first one to talk. This works out fine because Peeta has plenty to say.

"You shouldn't have to do _that_, either," he argues, nearly all the gentleness gone, though he keeps his voice soft. "I'm sitting right here. I can help you, but you ignore it. Then you lie about and expect me to trust you."

"Why would I—?"

"And every Monday that I've talked to you, you keep telling me that you're so much better than you were before. So I've been leaving you alone about it when the last thing you need is either of us pretending you're fine."

"I'm better." He opens his mouth to cut me off, but I raise my voice, speaking over him. "Well, I'm not swallowing Aspirin by the bottle anymore, am I?"

"That's not funny."

"No, what's funny is that you can actually be angry at me for not having the recovery you expected. Some counselor you are."

"You think I'm mad at you?"

I stuff the remainder of the school supplies in my backpack, throwing it over my shoulder and hopping off the bed. "Johanna's going to be back in about half an hour, so she'll kick you out if you're not already gone."

Without looking back at him, I march towards the door, resisting the urge to open the drawer again on my way out.

Peeta's voice is much softer now as he speaks up behind me. "Katniss—"

I step out into the hall. "Have a good Thanksgiving."


	9. Thanksgiving

**Why hello! I apologize for the super long wait for this chapter, but if it helps anything, it's almost twice as long as normal. I'm really iffy on it (again), but there was an attempt.**

**Thanks so very much to everyone who favorited, reviewed, and followed. As always, many thanks to MaidenAlice, Thundarrgirl, VMars lover, the Guest (this chapter is longer, so hooray!), zotic14, jackyb, ShadowCrystal26, Beautiful Lie 5105, Calliwishis, Thynerdgurl, Scrivener50, Guest (#2), Chanceawakening, rayleen14, mommatime, Opaque, ignitetheballoon, and mackie80.**

_**A quick warning**_**: Obviously suicide is a major theme of this story. This chapter will look at it from more of a psychological, clinical view, briefly explaining a particular motivation for suicide. I think it could potentially bring up bad feelings for some people, so if that's a concern of yours, just message me or send me a tumblr message and I can tell you what happened or send you the chapter without the stuff that could be an issue.**

**Suzanne Collins owns Hunger Games. I also took two direct passages from **_**Abnormal Psychology**_** by Richard R. Bootzin and Joan Ross Acocella.**

**XXX**

I don't see Peeta again before break. Our Government teacher cancels our last class before break, and I catch a flight down to North Carolina where my mom's supposed to pick me up.

She's late, so I end up sitting on a plastic bench, watching people reunite and sprint to make flights. While I'm there, a little boy screams his head off all the way across the food court because he can't find his toy car, and a wheel falls off of some businessman's suitcase.

All in all, I've never felt more invisible.

No, that's not true. After Dad died, then Prim, my mother and I spent weeks quietly shuffling around the house. The first time, I really tried to make things better, just because I knew it meant something to Prim. I sat by my mom on the couch, put a plate of food in front of her for dinner, screamed at her to wake up. But she just looked through me, not unlike the people bustling through the airport right now.

So the next time, when all the pain and resentment and grief swallowed us whole, I didn't try. Without Prim, there wasn't any point.

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. It's too loud and busy for me to doze off, but it doesn't matter. Soon my phone starts to vibrate, and I lift it to my ear.

As expected, it's my mom. "Katniss?"

"Hey."

"I'm on my way now. I was just with a patient who needed—"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Don't worry about it."

"You sound tired," she says after a slight pause. I can't help noticing how ironic it is that she can stay late counseling a stranger, but she misinterprets my anger.

With a flat, "I'll meet you in front of McDonalds," I turn the phone off and stash it in my pocket.

XXX

She lives in an apartment by herself just inside the city limits. The place is a lot smaller than our home in New York, but she couldn't afford to help me in college and pay off our house at the same time.

I like the apartment. It has a room for me, it doesn't take much cleaning, and there aren't any of the old ghosts here to haunt us.

When I emerge from the guestroom, I find my mom pacing in the kitchen, telephone pressed to her ear. "I'll add a timeslot tomorrow for Marcie if she needs it. The holidays can be…"

Tuning her out, I shuffle through the cupboards for a cup. Once I grab one, I fill it with water and move back to the main room to sit on the couch in front of the television. There's a short wooden bookcase against the wall a few feet from the TV, and I squint at the titles.

_Psychology and You_. _Abnormal Psychology. The Psychology of Adolescence_.

She has a few neatly colored and organized tabs that mark various pages inside the books. I notice one section's loaded with a different color on nearly every page, but I can't bring myself to see what subject was so interesting for her.

I stand up, leaving my glass on the small table in front of the couch, and retreat to my room.

XXX

She works every day. Twice a day she reminds me that she doesn't normally work this much —once when she hurries out the door and once when she comes home at night to collapse on her bed. She says she usually takes Saturdays and Sundays off and sometimes runs home for a nap if she doesn't have a patient scheduled.

"There are plenty of things to do around here if you leave the apartment," she tells me one morning as she puts her coat on in front of the door. "Either way, I'll stop back here for lunch around noon."

I nod, eyes glued to the bowl of cereal in my hands, and she leaves.

I'm not surprised when she doesn't come back for lunch. But it's not until one o'clock rolls around that I realize I was actually waiting for her.

From my familiar spot on the couch, I glance at the doorway one last time, then my eyes settle on the bookshelf. It's stacked to the top with guides to psychology, mental illness, therapy, counseling. All of the subjects she's spent so much time studying and using to help other people while she leaves her suicidal daughter alone in an empty apartment.

I go in the kitchen to eat something by myself. There's a boxed pizza wrapped in plastic in the freezer, and I open the silverware drawer for a knife to open it with. That's when I realize she doesn't have anything more than a dull butter knife.

Next, I move to her room and sift through her desk drawers for a pair of scissors. I come up short, and I marvel at the possibility that she doesn't keep anything sharp in her house.

Just before I shut the desk and try to tear open the pizza covering with my bare hands, my fingers brush against something square and smooth. I pull it out and find myself face-to-face with an old family photo. In it, I've just started junior high, Prim's in Ms. Arlie's fourth grade class, Dad's still in shape, and Mom is smiling.

Something inside me snaps.

I shove it back where it was, so quickly the corner rips. Guilt floods through me, and I start to shake. I close the drawer too quickly, catch my index finger, and swear as I pull it out. For a split-second, I can see the picture again, and before I'm aware what I'm doing, I lock myself in her bathroom.

I run my hand along the shower curtain, which has protective plastic on one side, a pattern on the other. Her sink is embedded in a small brown cupboard. I feverishly rip open the cupboard doors, lowering myself to ground.

There's an unopened set of cheap razors. She has two fluffy towels stacked, one on top of the other, and cleaning supplies. Bleach, Windex, toilet bowl cleaner.

My movements come to a sudden stop when I feel the tiny, white, round bottle at the back of the cupboard. I grasp the Advil and pull it up to eye level. It's in a miniature size, and already opened with a number of pills missing. There aren't enough.

I put my head in my hands, leaning against the bathroom door and forcing myself to breathe. My throat closes, tying in knots, and my breath comes out in rapid gasps. I can't breathe. I hear an ugly choking sound passing my lips, but there aren't any tears. I might feel a little better if I did cry, but I can't.

Throwing the Advil to the side, I tear open the package of razors and hold one up, looking it over. I'm so focused on the object in my hand that I almost miss the sound coming from the bedroom.

Ringing.

I'm so startled that I drop the razor, and it bounces off my leg to the ground.

I toss everything back where it was, then stumble out of the bathroom on shaky legs. On top of that damn desk with the picture, my mom's laptop is on. Cautious, I move towards it and see that Gale's calling my mom.

I'm just about to ignore the call when I see that he already messaged me twice, saying, "_You there_?" and "_My mom said you'd probably be around. Unless you decided to leave the apartment after all_."

I frown. Hazelle and my mother have been talking about me. If I ignore the call, I better have a good excuse or they'll figure out I screened it.

Sighing, I take a few seconds to calm myself down as much as possible, then pick up. The picture loads, then Gale's face splits into a tiny smile when he sees me.

He isn't much of a smile person, so I feel a small flicker of warmth flare up inside when he does.

"I thought you weren't there," he says.

"Sorry. I was busy."

He raises an eyebrow. "So where've you been the last month?" I shrug, and he shakes his head. "Second time you've gone missing since I've been in Brazil, Catnip."

My face falls. Luckily, Gale seems to miss it as he adds, "Don't tell me you joined a cult."

I give him an absent smile, thinking about what he said. The first time I stopped talking to him, I was in the hospital after an overdose, then in a group psychiatric home. More recently, I stopped talking to him because I was too distracted trying to keep up with school and Peeta and live in the real world.

It's been almost exactly two months since the bad night. Three months since I started at Bohm. A month and a half since I met Peeta. And it feels like so much longer than that. Like I'm a different person.

I don't know how that could be. Or why. I'm not trying as hard as I could be. I still hurt myself, even when I try not to. I still blame other people for the way I am. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that something's changed.

But it hasn't. I haven't. I just proved that to myself. The pain came back and I locked myself away, like always.

_Then you opened the door and talked to Gale instead,_ a voice reminds me in the back of my mind. I ignore it, turning my focus back to Gale. He's telling me some story about his roommate, and I'm way too distracted to follow it.

"Gale," I interrupt, and he cuts off.

"Yeah?"

"Do you miss Bohm?"

At first he gives me a look like he thinks I'm teasing him. But I don't say anything else, and he decides to answer. "Not really. I already lived there for two years. At least this place is different."

I swallow as he turns to look over his shoulder, then stares at a spot somewhere to his right. "I'm ready to come back, though. Rory's being a pain in everyone's ass and Posy looks different every time I see her."

"Her birthday's coming up," I say, because I can't come up with anything better.

He ignores me, continuing like he didn't hear me. Coughing once, he finally glances back at me. "It'll be good to see you again, too."

For the first time, I wonder what it would've been like for him to hear over Skype that he'd be going back to Bohm without me.

Would he have left Brazil right away? Would that mean all that money he spent for his semester abroad was for nothing?

The next through comes from nowhere.

What would Peeta have done? He could've ended up with someone a lot more fun to be around than me. Or someone a lot worse, though I can't imagine what kind of person that would be.

Scratching my forehead, I tell Gale, "I'm ready for you to come back, too."

XXX

Thanksgiving comes a week after I arrive, and my mom and I almost have lunch together. It's a frozen turkey she put in the oven, mashed potatoes, and a pumpkin pie she bought from the grocery store during her lunch break yesterday.

Then, since her work number is programmed to forward to her cell, she gets a call from a teary patient who keeps repeating how much he hates Thanksgiving. The man's speech picks up until I can't understand him, and she leaves the table and crosses to her bookshelf, opening one of the books and flipping to a bookmarked page while he talks.

I'm not sure what he says to her, but it isn't long before she walks outside and aimlessly paces through the complex's yard, listening to him. Her phone's glued to her ear the entire time. I watch, convinced I never had half the attention she's giving him now.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I stand up and move to sit in front of the bookshelf. I pull out the same book she did and start to leaf through it, searching for the same blue tab she just found.

Something stops me.

I find the section she's so diligently marked, underlined, and highlighted. She has no new notes or thoughts of her own, but that's not what matters. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I realize it's an entire sub-chapter about suicide.

Maybe it's a selfish hope that she didn't forget what I did as easily as I thought, but something tells me this wasn't marked to help with one of her patients. This section's for me.

There's one sentence that's highlighted and marked with a pink tab: "In short, the vast majority of suicide attempts are made by people who on one level truly wish to live."

I stare at it for awhile, unsure what to make of this. My hands feel clammy, and they tremble as I turn the page. There, I find another tabbed paragraph with a few select words highlighted:

_Egoistic suicide, a very different classification, results from individuals' lack of integration into their society. Loners with no strong ties to community or family, egoistic suicides are people who lack a supportive social network to see them through periods of stress._

I don't feel sorry for myself reading it. I don't agree, don't feel relief that I'm understood. Instead, with a force I haven't felt in a long time, there's anger. Extreme, radiating anger.

She might be an selfish, oblivious parent, but I'm not the person this book is talking about. Because…

Before I can stop them, faces spring to my mind: Gale, the ER doctor, Peeta, Witt.

I slam the book shut then scramble to my feet. Back in the kitchen, I toss my plate into the fridge to keep my remaining food, pull a jacket on over my shoulders, and head out the door.

My mom's so focused on her work that I'm not sure she notices when I pass her and head down the sidewalk.

I rub my face, waiting for the anger to dissipate. It doesn't, and I can't place where it's stemming from or who it's aimed towards. I scuff my foot against the concrete, kicking a small rock into the grass on my right, then I spot a park. With trees.

Unable to help myself, I break into a jog and hoist myself up one of the trunks. An almost-childlike energy, one that allows me to move from branch to branch, higher and higher, propels me upwards as I climb.

I _know_ I'm not the person in that book. I have people everywhere.

They might not be there when I want them to be, and they might not help me as much as I want them to, but the faces swim in front of my eyes until I'm forced to stop on a branch, wrap an arm around the trunk to steady myself, and cry.

XXX

Mom drops me off at the airport on Monday morning. The plane is packed with people, all flying back to New York after the holidays, and I get a middle seat near the back of the plane.

I take a taxi back to school, where classes have technically already started. I'm too late for Calculus, but I can make it to Spanish if I try. But I have to pass Bon Café if I go. And if I do, there's a good chance I'll see _him_. Hope and absolute terror simultaneously well up inside me at the thought.

I decide to compromise. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I move in the general direction of the foreign languages building, keeping my distance from Bon.

As I pass the café, I pointedly set my gaze on the buildings ahead of me. Then another set of buildings come into view, and I realize I'm not here for Spanish at all.

Trying not to think or worry or talk myself out of it, I move towards the student center with the counseling offices. For once, there don't seem to be many people there, and I automatically glance inside the glass window of Room 231—the Peer Room.

My heart almost stops when I see Peeta, sitting on the beanbag in the waiting room. He's too busy talking to the man who sits behind the desk to notice me. But one look at him and I feel the ache all over again. The one from the walk back to Bohm after we went to the hospital, the one after Gale and I hung up on Skype over break.

Just when I think I can't do this, that I should around and run back outside, a steady voice speaks up in the back of my mind; I'm doing the right thing. That he won't spend time with me anymore, probably won't even be allowed to, but it needs to happen.

Trying to seem Normal around him isn't much of an option anymore, either.

This isn't part of the plan, but I at least owe him an explanation. Maybe he'll even be happy about it.

I pull my phone from my pocket, type, "_Can I talk to you outside student services in twenty minutes?_" and press send. Immature as it is, I wait outside until he notices his phone light up, then I back away.

Just in case he decides to head outside now, I keep my head down and shoot fugitive glances behind me all the way up the stairs. Then, after promising myself I'm doing the right thing again, I duck inside the counseling office.

The first few minutes are torture, and I wince at nearly every question Witt asks, but it gets better after that. Then, with my arms wrapped around my middle, I leave. I check my phone in the hallway, and Peeta's agreed to come.

That's when I realize how long it's been. I was inside Witt's office for forty minutes, but it didn't feel that way. Now I'm late for Spanish and late for Peeta. I'm almost glad because I feel better after Witt. I'm not sure I want to ruin it.

In the end, I don't have much of a choice. Peeta's sitting on the steps, out front, doodling in the dust that's settled on them. He half-heartedly turns to face me when I open the doors, then his eyes widen as he jumps to his feet.

"You were waiting inside?"

I shake my head. "No, I just…" I suck in a breath, reminding myself why I texted him in the first place. "Sorry."

He stares at me, and I make an effort not to look so hostile. My arms drop to my sides, and I unclench my jaw. Then, I try again. "I'm sorry."

"It's not a big deal," he says casually. I frown, confused. "I don't have anywhere to be for another hour anyway."

Oh.

"I'm not sorry I'm late," I explain. "Well, I am, but I'm talking about the other thing."_ The other thing_. If I wasn't so nervous, I'd almost laugh at how stupid I sound. "When I walked out on you."

He doesn't look so forgiving now. I shift uncomfortably and open my mouth to continue, but I don't get the chance.

"I wasn't helping much," he says.

I scratch the back of my neck, taken aback. "More than anybody else was."

He finally looks at me, and I'm surprised how soft his eyes are. "Why didn't you just tell me so I could—?"

The words well up in my throat like they did every day over Break when my mother was around. But this time, I can't stop them. Especially not after I spent the last forty minutes talking to Witt. "I didn't want to remind you why you were there."

He blinks a few times, nose scrunching slightly as he thinks. Then, he says, "I was there to study."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And I'm telling you, it wasn't about that. I was there to do homework and just..." He trails off, then he speeds up, sounding strained. "I already knew. What you were doing when you thought I wasn't paying attention."

My heart starts to pound, and I swallow hard. He continues, "I didn't—I didn't want to hurt your feelings." He lets his breath out in a whoosh, roughly running a hand through his curls. "I was worried that bringing it up would make you mad."

He braces himself, hands fidgeting and tapping against his leg, then looks at the ground. In a determined, clearly-rehearsed speech, he begins, "I thought about it a lot over break. And I'm not trying to rat on you, but I need to—"

"Tell someone." He glances up at me, confused by my interruption. I shake my head. "No, you don't."

"That's what I kept telling myself, but I was stupid to think I could fix it. I don't have a degree or firsthand experience or any resources to work with."

I didn't need someone with a degree or firsthand experience or resources. I needed someone to nudge me in the right direction. And he did, somehow.

"I already did it," I say, watching for his reaction. My face flushes as a sudden wave of embarrassment hits me. "I told Witt."


	10. December

**I did a sucktastic job updating on time, so I apologize for that. But. Good news is that I have exactly zero excuses for the future now that I got some things finished up last week ^_^**

**Thanks so very, very much for your patience, follows and favorites. As always, many thanks to my awesome reviewers: zotic14, herehavesomeberries, Thynerdgurl, Calliwishis, MaidenAlice, AVG18, forever everlark, rayleen14, Nmoreblack, and kaomei.**

**Trigger warning: child abuse.**

**Still don't Hunger Games, either.**

XXX

"I'd probably be doing a little better if I paid attention in Gov, but I'm caught up on the reading and everything."

"Are you still struggling to concentrate during your classes?"

I shift, face flushing a little at the knowing look on Witt's face. "Not really. Not like that," I answer, gaze trained on the computer over his shoulder.

During times like this, I don't like how well he can read me. It used to be nice, especially in the beginning, because he saw things I couldn't put into words. When he asked the tough questions—ones about my mom, and Prim, and Peeta keeping secrets he wasn't supposed to—I'd just stare at him, willing him to understand.

And almost always, he did.

"Are you happy with your performance as a student this semester?"

I cough. Not entirely, but it's not because I'm unable to handle the stress.

It's the tic-tac-toe. And sometimes Hangman, too. Peeta sits in the back with me every Wednesday and Friday, pulls out his new red notebook, and we play.

"I think so," I say, averting my eyes.

Witt clears his throat, then thankfully moves on. "And how's Calculus?"

Peeta keeps urging me to go to Delly, but I don't like it. When she's there with us, my chest feels tight and I usually make up a story about a headache or a study group meeting so I can leave.

"It's good." I pause, waiting for Witt's next question, but it doesn't come. Frowning, I add, "Hard. I've got a test on Monday."

"Are you feeling any anxiety over it?"

I know what he's really asking me, and I'm glad he's smart enough not to come right out and say it. At this point, I tend to close up when asks about the cuts, and I think that's why he talks more about the stress than the emotions act. That's probably why I like him so much.

Hesitantly, I say, "I'm doing the best I can."

He nods, and I think he knows what I'm trying to tell him: no new scars. He didn't make me promise not to do it anymore, and he didn't make me promise to tell him when I did, but I think that was better in the end. It was a lot more than I'd originally hoped for.

"Well, is there anything else you'd like to talk about, Katniss?"

I shake my head, rising to my feet. Witt stands with me, and I turn to leave his office while he trails behind.

As we move down the hallway towards the waiting room, I glance at him over my shoulder. "Thank you."

At first, his eyebrows crease in surprise, then he gives me a small, close-mouthed smile.

We reach the waiting room and I see a little girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, sitting in one of the chairs. Confused, I watch as Witt passes me and stops in front of her.

"What happened to your knee?" he asks.

She looks down, and I notice the small, circular scrape on her skin. "I slipped when I was climbing a tree." She reaches under her seat and pulls out a brown bag, then stands up and hands it to him. "PB&J, I think."

"Thanks for dropping this off," he says, kissing the top of her head. Then he turns to me. "Katniss, this is my daughter, Rue."

Her curls bounce as she peeks up at me. "There's somebody waiting out in the hallway for you," she says.

"Oh. Thanks." I turn to Witt. "I'll probably stop by again before break if I have time." My gaze dips down to his daughter again. "Nice meeting you."

I leave them behind, trying to ignore the way my heart starts to pound as I move closer to the door. Just before I reach it, I realize my tread is faster than usual and I force myself to slow down. Based on the fact that I have about one friend at Bohm, I can guess who's waiting. He's done it before, if he happens to be in the counseling building at the same time as I am.

Sure enough, when I step out into the hallway, I find Peeta, reading the pamphlets on a bulletin board a few feet away. He turns to look at me, face splitting into a grin.

"How long have you been waiting?" I ask as I trudge over to him.

He shrugs. "I just got here."

I'm not sure I believe that, especially since Witt's daughter looked like she'd been waiting for awhile inside. But I can't think of any good reason he'd lie to me, so I let it go.

"I had to stop by the peer room to pick up my Secret Santa present," he says, showing me a box wrapped in green and red paper with a bow on top. "Forgot it there yesterday. I didn't want my person to find it before the party."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Yeah, but if I wait until the last minute, I'll forgot about it and run out of time to wrap it." His cheeks turn pink. "Happened last year, back in high school."

I inspect his gift, letting him lead the way to the stairs. "Who's it for?"

"Margie Hamilton," he answers, then he turns on me, mock-serious. "Don't tell her, though."

"I won't."

We make our way through the tiled main floor, and I listen to the sound of his footsteps. Mine are light, almost impossible to hear, but his shoes thud against the floor with every move.

We pass the peer room, and I stop in front of it, noting that it has a bulletin board of its own. Somehow, I've managed to miss it until now.

There's a small picture of each Peer with a little nametag underneath, and I search out Peeta's. His hair is messy in the picture, like it was taken in the wind, but he looks happy. I stare at it, longer than I should, before I see the blank sheet of paper next to the board. Sign-ups.

I move on, shoving the front doors open. It's murky and overcast outside, and the wind makes me tremble. Peeta's so quiet beside me that I almost forget he's there.

Sucking in a breath, I face him. "How'd you end up with me?"

"What?"

"There was a sign-up sheet for people who want a Peer. I saw it next to all the pictures." He nods slowly, eyebrows furled. I continue, "I didn't sign up for anyone."

"Yeah, but…" He shrugs, looking startled. "It seemed like a good idea."

"To who? Witt?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I knew what happened to you, so I just—I mentioned that I could talk to you, too. If they thought it'd help."

I stop, taken aback. "You volunteered?" He shoots me an affirmative sideways glance. "Is that normal?"

"Not really."

Unsure what to think, I ask, "Then why did you?"

He opens his mouth, then wets his lips, fumbling for an answer. Eventually, he settles on: "Everybody needs help sometimes." He turns his head in my direction. "Even you."

I contemplate that and what it might mean. Did he think I was so desperate and lonely that having a friend would fix everything? Does he still meet with me because he thinks I'm the crazy, suicidal girl who can't stand living in her own skin?

I bite back the questions, watching the trees sway as we walk.

Things are different than they were when I met him. They're different than they were before Thanksgiving. And even now, just a few weeks after Break, something's indefinably changed. I'm not sure what it is, or if it's my fault, but it's better. I'm not willing to mess it up.

"What'd you get for Margie Hamilton?" I finally ask, pulling my coat tighter around my body for warmth.

XXX

I'm perched on top of my bed, studying the notes from the new and final Calc unit before Christmas, when Johanna comes in. She has a red scarf wrapped around her neck, which she tosses to the ground near her dresser. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she holds a disposable coffee cup in her hands.

It's white, with the Bon insignia on it.

She looks at me with the aggravatingly smug expression I've grown used to in the past month and a half. "Your shrink almost sent the places up in flames," she says, taking a sip.

I tense, biting my cheek in agitation. It's no use telling her he's just a Peer Counselor; she's never listened before.

"What happened?"

"Who knows." She takes another drink, and I roll my eyes as I wait for her. "He was grabbing food in the backroom, then the bitch owner of the café went back there. Next thing I know, she's yelling at him to pay attention. I could smell the fucking burnt bread from my spot in line."

I grit my teeth, the visual all too clear.

She cocks her head to the side. "Guess he must've been a little distracted."

I'm not oblivious to what she's implying, so I give her a steady, irritated look. "It's harder than it sounds. Taking care of everything in the back, I mean."

Her eyes shine with amusement as she licks the remaining coffee off her lips. "I'll bet it is."

I slam my notebook shut, shoving it in my backpack. "I'm going to the library."

"You're going to meet your loverboy looking like that?"

Shooting her a nasty look, I pull on my jacket. "He's working."

"Not anymore," she says, tossing her cup in the trash. "He didn't come back after his little bread fiasco."

I stop, wondering whether or not it's worth it to take the bait. After moving two steps closer to the door, I decide it is. "Where'd he go?"

"Out the back, probably."

She's not going to give me any helpful information. She doesn't really know Peeta or care much about him, so I'm sure she didn't bother paying any attention to whatever happened in the backroom.

Maybe it's all in my mind, but a weight settles in my stomach at her story.

"Thanks a lot," I say with an edge, heading out the door. I make it to the bottom floor before I remember my cell phone.

Leaning up against the wall, I drag it out of my backpack and text him. _Hey, you there?_

He's always been good about responding on time, so I force myself to wait. I tap my fingers against the top of my pants, delete old texts, watch the people pass me in the hallway. And still, nothing.

Just when I'm about to go find him myself, he responds. _Hey. Everything okay? _

_Yeah, you?_

Another long pause. Then,_ Sorry, I'm at work but I'll text you when I get off._

XXX

Bon's crowded, but Peeta says it usually is. Apparently it doesn't slow down until late Spring.

I slip inside, walking past the line of people. Sure enough, I find his mother manning the register behind the counter while two students hurry around behind her. I've met them both before, but I don't see Peeta.

Johanna was telling the truth, which means he wasn't.

I find myself frozen in place, watching his mom's face as she takes orders. She doesn't smile much, but she greets every customer. I keep expecting her to turn around and bark an order at an employee, but she doesn't.

Without warning, she meets my gaze, and my anger starts to burn deep in my chest.

Swiftly, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the café.

I think about checking the backroom for him, but my instincts tell me he's not there. And if he is, the last thing I want is his mother catching me.

I've been inside his dorm room once or twice, but I don't go if I can help it. There's something uncomfortable about being there without anyone else, even if we are prepping for Government.

But I remember the way, and I'm worried that if I ask him first, he'll lie to me again.

His dorm is near the music building, which really isn't too far away. I pull the glass doors open, pass the RA who's sitting at the front desk in the lobby, and take the stairs.

His room is on the second floor. I remember it because it's next to a poster with the Top Ten "Bohm Badger Basics," which include guidelines like attending class and knowing where to find campus security.

I hesitate outside his door, listening for movement inside. It's not long before I hear a drawer shutting inside. I knock.

It's instantly silent, and I frown. There's no sign that he's coming to the door so I try again with the same result.

My nostrils flare, and I scowl at the wooden door in my way. "I heard you close a drawer," I call, pressing a hand against the door. "And I know you're not at work. I was just there."

I wait him out, squinting at the door until it opens.

My eyes widen, and I stand in front of Peeta, rooted to the ground. "What happened to your face?"

Uncharacteristically flat, he answers, "Nothing."

On its own accord, my hand reaches for his cheek, fingertips brushing the bright red mark that's nearly two inches long. Inspecting it a little closer, I see that there's a small spot—maybe a centimeter wide—of dried blood.

I step closer to Peeta, trying to get him out of the doorway. "Let me in."

Clearly unhappy, he steps back, and that's when I get a good look at the rest of him. His chest is bare, abdomen exposed. There's a swooping, fluttery sensation in my stomach that disappears the instant I notice another red, slightly swollen patch on his hip.

He closes the door behind me, then notices the way my eyes are trained on his side. "I ran into one of the ovens," he tells me, verging on defensive.

"Ran?" I repeat incredulously, noticing the ice pack resting on his desk.

"Yes. Ran."

There's probably a better, more sensitive way to express what I'm thinking, but I'm too angry to care. "You were pushed, you mean."

He stiffens, giving me the most hostile look I've ever received from him. "I tripped into it."

"She hit you."

He doesn't answer, and I release my breath in uneven gasps. Unable to help myself, I add, "Over a piece of bread."

His jaw locks as he abruptly turns away from me, reaching for a shirt. I get a better look at the injured area on his hip, and I have to clench my fists to stop their shaking.

I stare at the budding bruise on his back, and realization crashes over me like a tidal wave. "She hits you."

It's not so different than what I said before. Just an extra letter, a different tense. But it makes him crumble.

His head snaps in my direction, the corners of his mouth twitching. He silently picks up the icepack and places it inside the freezer part of his mini-refrigerator. When he turns to face me, I'm relieved to see that his eyes are dry.

Peeta takes a seat on his bed. I automatically follow, standing in front of him. My hands dangle limply by my side as I look for other injuries he's covered up. A few seconds too late, I realize I'm not looking for bruises—I'm searching for scars. Ones like mine.

I run a hand through my hair, reminding myself to breathe. There are a lot of things I could ask him about his holiday, his family, Taftan, his mother's temper. But right now, if I was him, I wouldn't want to rehash it. I'd want someone to make it better, even if it was just for a day.

"If I run back to my dorm, will you promise to be here when I get back?" I ask. "And you won't lock me out?"

He stares at me, expression nearly unreadable. Then his eyes soften, dropping to the ground. "I won't lock you out."

Satisfied, I turn and jog across campus, back to my own dorm. I'm out of breath by the time I reach my room, but I don't stop to rest. Instead, after finding what I need, I dart back to Peeta's room.

As promised, the door's unlocked and he's still sitting on the bed. He looks up at me, and I cross the room, stopping in front of him.

He points at the object in my hand. "What's that?"

"Cover Up."

"Why are you—?"

He cuts off, watching as I dip my fingers into the round, plastic container that holds that make-up. It's too light of a color for my own face, but it almost matches the underside of my arms, which is exactly why I bought it.

Gingerly, I start at the corner of the swollen skin on his cheek, rubbing in smooth circles. It's a process that's incredibly familiar to me, almost as old as my addiction itself.

As I near the dried blood, I ask, "How did you get cut?"

"Her wedding ring."

Swallowing, I take a step back. I find a box of tissues on top of his roommate's desk, and I take one. "I'm going to get this wet."

Peeta stops me, saying, "We have water bottles in the fridge. You can use one of those."

I listen and return to him with the tissue. After I wipe away the dried blood, I continue with the Cover Up. We're both quiet as I work, but I'm aware how closely he watches me.

I step back for a better view, then move in again to blur the edges of the make-up. When I finish, the ugly red shade is masked, and what's left of it could easily be blamed on the chill outside.

Stashing the Cover Up back in my bag, I say, "I was thinking I'd take a break from school tonight, before finals." That's a lie. I didn't have any special plans at all, but he doesn't have to know that. "I haven't left campus much since I've been here, so I thought I'd walk around and see what I find."

He sits up a little. "There's a bowling alley a couple blocks from Taftan's apartment," he says half-heartedly, surprising me. "I've never been there, though."

I think on it, and my lips curve up into a gentle smile. "Then you should come."


	11. Art

**...Well, my last author's note was a bit ironic, wasn't it? How I said I had no excuse, then went a month without updating. Sorry about that! Hopefully this chapter will make up for it :)**

**As always, thanks very much for your patience, favorites, follows, and reviews. Special thanks to Thynerdgurl, Chanceawakening, Emma, MaidenAlice, GryffindorNay, JJK38, Jacking. Peetas. Style (fanfic made me put the spaces to type your full username. What.), rayleen14, the Guest, AVG18, mommatime, and MusicIsJustMe. Also, you guys might want to thank ignite. the. balloon, whose PM (which was super nice and polite) single-handedly kicked my ass into gear with this chapter.**

**Trigger: More child abuse talk.**

**Suzanne Collins still owns.**

XXX

No one spares Peeta a second glance as we walk. Not leaving campus, or passing Taftan's apartment complex, or entering the bowling alley. By the way he walks, hunched over slightly with his head down, I suspect he thinks people pay him more attention than they do. I understand. I used to walk around with my arm tucked into my side, convinced every person I passed knew my secret.

The alley is old, with pictures on the wall and dated machines in the arcade. It has a disco ball near the center, and it's small and fairly empty. A jukebox rests in one corner, while another has a small restaurant-if you can call it that. It's really just a few tables in front of a counter. Its menu is written in chalk on a blackboard nailed to the wall, and the place serves beer, soda, and a few deep-fat-fried basics.

Peeta pays, and the only reason I let him is because I didn't think to grab any money from my dorm room before I ran back to him with the make-up.

"I'll pay you back next time I see you," I say, placing my foot on top of a plastic seat in our area to tie my bowling shoes. "Do you work tomorrow?"

His gaze settles on his own shoes, and the skin around his eyes crinkles in a slight frown. "I don't know if my mom will want me to. But I'm supposed to. I'm on the schedule."

I concentrate on the other shoe, thinking. "Maybe you shouldn't be. Have you ever thought about quitting?"

He shakes his head, then turns to the keyboard-like machine that allows him to type in our names.

"You have plenty of experience to get yourself a different job," I say. "Just as much as any other college student, probably more. And you'll be good at the interviews. You're good with people."

His cheeks flush pink, lips twisting to the side as he bites back a tiny grin. Deciding I like the way he looks smiling like that, I continue, "And your grades would help, too. You're a lot smarter than I am, and I never really had a hard time finding jobs back in high school."

His fingers freeze on the keyboard before he can finish typing my name. "Don't do that." I look up at him, eyebrows furled, and he stares back at me. "We both know you're smart, so why put yourself down?"

I ignore him, crossing to the wooden shelves as I look for a bowling ball. He moves in next to me and opens his mouth to say something else, so I snatch up the ball closest to me. It's heavy, probably too heavy for me to bowl decently, but I'll switch it out later.

I'm up first, and the ball slips from my hand because the thumb hole is too big. After an agonizingly slow roll towards the pins, it falls into the gutter. I manage two pins on the next turn.

He leaves me alone when I return, probably because he's focusing all his energy into keeping a straight face. Whether he's amused by my poor bowling or my expression, I can't say.

His turn doesn't go much better than mine did. Or the next. He gutters just about as often as I do, and I start to wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

When he returns from another suspicious gutter ball, I stand up from my seat and scowl at him. "You aimed for the gutter. I saw you."

"I've only gone bowling twice in my life!" he retorts, his voice catching as he laughs. "Cut me some slack."

I roll my eyes. "Why would you throw a bowling game? I really don't care if I lose." That's not completely true, but I'd rather that than have him pity me so much that he doesn't try to play.

He starts to brush a hand through his hair, but his palm hits his cheek and he winces. Deflating a little, he answers, "If you're not playing your best, I figured I shouldn't either."

"I am playing my best."

"No, you're not. I may be new to bowling, but I can tell you picked the wrong ball." He lifts mine, feeling how heavy it is, then raises an amused eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say anything bad when we were over there picking them out. You didn't have to run away like that."

Frowning, I take the ball away from him. "I didn't run anywhere."

He shakes his head, and his eyes dart towards the shelves again. "Okay. Well, if you want to go get another one, you can."

Walking past him towards the lane, I say, "I don't need it."

To his credit, he doesn't say anything else about it. And he actually tries, but by then, it's so late in the game that it doesn't make a big difference. He wins, but not by much.

Noticing the sour look on my face, he asks, "Are you hungry?"

Between studying for my finals and hunting him down in his room, I haven't had any time to eat. Up until now, I didn't really notice. But I'm not about to have him pay for that, too. "Not really."

"Well, I'm starving," he says, fishing out his wallet from underneath the bowling seat. "Do you want to set up another game while I go buy some food? Or are you done?"

I sit down, thinking it over. If I say yes, does that mean we'll just go back to our dorms? Will I see him again before break?

Even though I didn't plan tonight, and I fully intended to study until I'm ready for my tests, a hollow feeling settles in my stomach at the thought of leaving. I imagine myself back in the room, pouring over equations and vocabulary terms and everything else, and it seems so empty.

"You don't have any tests to study for?" The question is mostly to buy myself time because I don't want to seem too desperate and lonely, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"I have work tomorrow morning, but that's about it. I'm not too worried about my Psych final."

I stiffen, ignoring the last part of what he said. "You really aren't going to quit," I say, so flat it sounds like a statement. "You're going to stay at Bon."

"For now." His voice is airy and light, but it doesn't fit the dark, foreign look on his face. It seems like he's as frustrated by the prospect as I am, but he keeps working anyway.

Sitting down in one of the plastic chairs, I start to undo my bowling shoes. "I'm done."

He buys a hamburger and offers to share it, then ends up throwing most of it away. I guess he got tired of the stony silence as I waited for him to finish.

The thoughts of Bon Café and the bruise on his cheek pick at me. I remember the injuries on his hip, the way his mother had chased us both out of the back room, telling him to hurry up and get his brother from the hospital.

With a start, I forget all about my anger with Peeta and ask, "Was Taftan lying about how he got hurt?"

I feel him shift next to me, and my eyes flit to his before pinning to the ground with a new determination. "No. He's just…angry," he answers slowly, then he hesitates. "I think he likes fighting because it's someone he can hit back."

I shiver. It's hard to imagine patient, gentle Peeta fighting and swearing like his brother, or hurting anyone at all. While I battle the ugly thoughts, blades, and overwhelming desire for peace—and my father and Prim. Maybe he fights off something else. The anger, the hate, the storm I saw brewing behind Taftan's eyes.

Swallowing, I watch him out of the corner of my eye, taking him in. His laid back, clean clothes, the way his hands clench at his sides. Something clicks, and I understand. He's afraid. Not of being physically hurt, but that things could get worse if he tries to change them.

An urge rises up from somewhere inside me to take his hand, feel the calloused skin on his palms. Because that's probably the last thing he needs or wants today, I let the back of my hand brush against his.

He glances at me and I feel my cheeks burn pink. I speed up so I'm a little bit ahead of him.

I think my version of giving up came in the form of literal, physical death. His, the more obscure loss of whatever makes him strong now, almost seems worse.

What makes you different, then? I think, furling my eyebrows and forcing myself not to turn back and check on him. Different than me, different than Taftan. Gale, too, probably.

The only person he really reminds me of with his untouchable faith is Prim.

It's as if Peeta heard the thoughts from a moment ago. "She loves me."

I frown, trying to keep the skepticism off my face when I understand who he's referring to. His mom.

"She does," he insists, forceful as I've heard him. Stopping in front of an old tree near the sidewalk, he props himself against the trunk and presses his hand against the bark.

Absently, he continues. "She doesn't schedule me on Mondays anymore. I asked her not to, and she never gave me a hard time about it. And she usually went to those parent-teacher conferences in school, especially when Dad couldn't make it." A tiny, weak smile crosses his lips. "She helped me mail all my birthday party invites when I was a kid, and she made sure everyone got a thank-you note."

I take a deep breath, unsure what to think. It's impossible for me to imagine the memories he described, particularly when I can still see a trace of the bruise on his cheek. From her.

Finally, I say, "That's no reason to forgive her."

"It's not about that." He gives me a long look, then starts to walk again. "If I wanted, I could spend all my time trying to make sense of what she does and what she thinks of me, but it wouldn't help anything. So I think about the good things, otherwise she'd ruin every day if I let her."

Guilt tugs at my chest as my own mother comes to mind. Her dead eyes, half-hearted remark, the way she left me all alone. I grit my teeth. "How? How do you just decide to be happy?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. The pictures help."

"The ones in your notebook?"

"Yeah. It's easier letting go of things if I get them out of my head and onto paper."

Intrigued, I ask, "Are they all like the ones you show me? Of your house and nature and everything?"

He stops and faces me, noticing the genuine interest on my face. "Some of them. I draw a lot of people, too. Anything that comes to mind."

I've spent entire class periods pouring over his doodles, and I'm still convinced I haven't seen enough. His other pictures, the ones he drew when he was off somewhere by himself, must be so beautiful.

"Can I—?" I break off, hoping I won't sound as nosy as the question seems. "Can I see them? The other pictures?"

His eyes widen, and he opens and closes his mouth, trying to answer me. Maybe the memories are even worse than I thought if he's so afraid of sharing them.

"Never mind," I add, embarrassed that I asked. "I wasn't trying to—"

His response takes me completely by surprise. "Do you promise not to laugh?"

I scowl, offended. "Why would I laugh?"

Peeta shakes his head as if I've done something stupid, and I feel my temper start to flare up again. Before I can say anything else, he cuts me off. "Come on. They're in my dorm room."

XXX

His roommate is gone, probably off studying somewhere like we should be doing. The cover-up is still haphazardly lying on top of Peeta's sheets, the opened water bottle next to it.

"Does your roommate know?" I ask, looking at the messier bed and side of the room. "About your mom?"

Peeta crouches down to rummage around in the bottom drawer of his desk. "I haven't told him anything, but I think he can guess...What pictures did you want to see?"

"It's up to you." I pause, specifying, "Your favorite."

He tenses, fingers stilling. His head drops, eyes dipping to stare at the drawer. Swallowing, he answers in an uneven, almost frightened voice. "If that's what you want."

I move to stand next to him, watching with awe as Peeta shuffles through what has to be nearly a hundred-if not more-sheets of paper. Some are face-up, and I catch a glimpse of animals and houses, pictures of people who must have been his friends in high school. I even spot one of Delly.

Leaning over him to pluck it out of the pile, I take the drawing in. I'm surprised at the unpleasant feeling that settles in my stomach, and I quickly put it in its place, backing away. "How do you know Delly again?"

"We were neighbors in elementary school," he answers, pushing the picture to the side as he continues sifting through the images. "She moved after that, but we met up again in high school."

"Oh."

He reaches inside and plucks out one of the sheets, handing it to me. "The one on the left is my younger brother. He's still in high school."

I instantly seek out the boy's eyes, looking for the anger I found in Taftan's. To my relief, it isn't there. But I know that Peeta didn't just miss it as an artist because Taftan's in the picture, too. I feel like I know him better from the single picture than I did meeting him in-person. "You're really good."

Peeta smiles, a shy, humble one that disappears before long. He reaches back to take the picture from me, but I pull it away. "I'm still looking," I say.

He turns back to the work at hand. As he flips and turns and organizes the pictures, I can't tear my eyes away from the one in my hands. It's really just the two of them standing side-by-side, and Taftan has an arm slung around his brother's shoulder. The younger one looks like he's laughing at something off to the side, his face turned away slightly. Taftan's smiling too, but it's not happy. Bitter and passive more than anything.

"I drew that right after Mattzo dyed Taff's birthday cake pink," Peeta explains, facing the desk. "Last year."

I look at their faces again, feeling a little better. "I can see why it's your favorite."

"What?" He turns to look at me. "It's-oh. No, I just wanted you to see Matt."

My cheeks turn pink, and I give it back to him. "Right."

"But you like it?" he asks, and I know he's not fishing for compliments. He genuinely seems nervous.

Leaning back against his bed, I answer, "It made me feel like I know your brothers as well as you do."

The smile returns, and it doesn't leave this time. At least until he finds another picture, one that makes his shoulders hunch as he sucks in a deep, shaky breath.

"Is it your mom?" I ask, wondering if I can stomach an image of her after he's done such a wonderful job capturing his brothers.

"No." He rubs a hand over his mouth and chin. "The one you asked for."

"Your favorite?"

He nods, and I wonder how it could possibly be his favorite if it makes him act this way. Before can I ask, he gingerly gives it to me, then faces the drawer again even though he's already found what I asked him for.

My fingers curl around the white paper that doesn't have a single bent corner, rip, or wrinkle. It takes place in an office I've visited multiple times, especially during the more recent weeks. There's a poster in the corner, up against the wall, that I hadn't noticed when I visited the place myself.

I pull back, taking in the picture as a whole. I'd caught a glimpse of the rest of it when he first gave it to me, but I'd instantly re-directed my attention to the walls and other details. I don't know why.

Finally placing the main subject of the drawing, I manage a reply. "Me?"

He sneaks a glance at me over his shoulder. "Yeah. You."

I stare at the picture, realizing it's from the first time I met him, inside the waiting room for the counseling offices. Witt's even there, and his daughter. "Why me?"

He stands up, coming to stand next to me and lean his back against the bed, too. "It's one of my best memories."

"I'm not even smiling!" I say, doubtful. "I look like a...an asshole."

Peeta gawks at me, seemingly as baffled by my response as I am about the picture. Then, he laughs. An uncomfortable, disbelieving laugh that I'm not sure I like. "No you don't."

I ignore him. "How can this be-?"

"Because I thought you'd died," he interrupts, his voice low, every ounce of amusement gone. "I thought the last time I'd see you was walking away from that party, when everything about you should've warned me what you were planning to do. It did warn me, but I didn't believe it."

"It's not up to you to-"

"Then I heard that you were in the hospital, which meant that you'd probably be okay, but I couldn't let myself believe-"

"It's not up to you to you to make me better. It wasn't then, either."

"No, it's not," he agrees. "But if I saw someone who needed help, I should've done something."

"Well I think you've made up for it by now, haven't you?"

"That's what you think this?" he shoots back, louder without warning. Everything feels like it's suddenly moving too fast. "You think I'm trying to make up for not going after you?"

I push off from the bed so I can stand in front of him. "Why else would you throw away hours of your life trying to fix someone who didn't want your help?"

He fumbles for an answer, and I let him. As far as I can tell, I've won this argument. Not that I'm exactly sure what it was about.

While he's thinking of something to say, I move to put the picture back where it was. This seems to give him an idea, because he steps in front of me, speaking feverishly. "That picture's my favorite because it's the first time I saw you after everything and knew that you really were still alive."

"So?" I reach around him to toss the picture towards the desk, but his hand stops me, wrapping around mine before I can let go of the sheet.

"You had no idea-" He stops to breathe. "I didn't..." He lets go of me, getting out of the way and pacing the room that suddenly seems too small and claustrophobic.

I glance at the picture again because it's easier than watching him stumble around looking so lost. "You didn't what?" I prompt, just so he knows I'm not angry anymore.

"I wanted to be with you." He visibly relaxes as the confession leaves him, calming down. "I wanted to be with you, and I think I might have spent the rest of my life thinking about it and knowing I never even got the chance to talk to you. Let alone tell you."

He seems to think he's said something monumental, that I might go sprinting from the room any second, but I know my legs wouldn't move if I tried. "What? You..."

"That's why it's my favorite," he says, standing still. "Because as soon as I saw you, I knew there was still a chance. And even if there wasn't, it would still be one of the best days of my life because you were already starting to get better. Just by being there, coming back to Bohm, you were ready to try. You just didn't know it."

I drop the drawing, watching it float back to its place inside the drawer. "You wanted to be with me," I state, trying to decide if I like the way the words sound in my mouth.

"Yes."

"Wanted."

Not understanding, he repeats, "Yes."

"In the past."

"No."

"No?"

"I'd spend every day with you if I could," he says, watching intently for a reaction I'm not sure I know how to give. I can't draw pictures to show him what I think, or tell him things will make him melt the way he sometimes does to me.

I look around the room, searching for the words. Instead, I echo his. "Me too."

It's his turn to be dumbfounded. Slack-jawed, he looks at me with narrowed eyes. "You would?"

"If you'd let me."

"Of course."

He takes another second, trying to wrap his head around what I've said. Then, in a flash, his arms envelop me. His cheek presses against my temple. I feel his hot breath against my hair, the way his heart pounds in his chest.

I've never done anything like this before, but instinctively, my fingers brush along the hairline on the back of his neck. A tremor passes through him at my touch, and he tightens his hold. I don't know where it stems from, but I place a soft kiss at his jawline and immediately wonder if that was the right thing to do. I'm not sure if it's possible to ruin this moment, but if someone could, it'd be me.

He pulls back, and I'm sure I was wrong after all. I disentangle my arms, letting them drop to my sides like something dead. The way I suddenly halt stops him. I'm not sure what he was going to do, but he takes my hand, leading me over to sit on top of his bed. From there, we talk. About everything, really. Mostly basic, normal things.

After the conversation we just had, everything else seems easy.

Except the nagging thought in the back of my mind that we'll both be leaving again soon, moving back to our houses for Christmas. Where his mother might be harsher than ever, mine more lonely and broken. Gale's semester abroad is ending, which might normally have brought me comfort, but it's my first Christmas without the Hawthornes since we moved.

But I push those thoughts aside, deciding to take Peeta's advice from earlier and decide to think about the good things. At least for now.

XXX

**A/N AS OF 7/24: Hey guys! So, or those of you I've talked with directly, you already know that I've been planning on updating forever now. And I did completely intend to do that. However, at this time, I'm going to go ahead and mark this story complete. You guys have been really amazing and encouraging to me, and I want you to know that it wasn't pure negligence that kept me away. The truth is that I've seen a rather nasty side of the Hunger Games fandom and I can't bring myself to write about it anymore. But I do wish you guys all the best, and I genuinely mean it when I say your support and enthusiasm has blown me away.**

**-Tay :)**


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